


l'apple du vide

by devilssnare



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternative Universe kind of, M/M, Teenager AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-06-21 04:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15549669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilssnare/pseuds/devilssnare
Summary: John and Sherlock meet in the summer of 1996. Sherlock lives with his upper-middle-class parents in Halton, Buckinghamshire and John's volunteering for the summer. A friendship blooms.This story sticks to the show's timeline, meaning later chapters, when the boys are adults, is when you see the episodes happen in this universe.*SPOILERS*Nothing sexual happens between John and Sherlock until Sherlock is 16.Sherlock Holmes and the earlier stories are public domain but this story relies heavily upon the BBC series adaption.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this for a year and just wanted to get some feedback on it. Edited by me so there may be grammar mistakes or issues of continuity.  
> Enjoy xx

**Prologue**

_Halton, Buckinghamshire  
England_

The Lord and Lady Holmes resided in the ghastly overly large Halton House in Halton, Buckinghamshire. With only 935 other residents living in the small South East village, the community was tightly knit. The inhabitants of Halton looked up to the Holmes’, with their poise and wealth becoming a topic of discussion with the elderly when they had afternoon tea. The little old ladies gossiped and openly admired the charity of Lady Adalie Holmes, whom singlehandedly saved the Halton RAF from going bust, offering them the use of half of the Holmes estate to use as training grounds and allowed the them to demolish the old domed winter garden and rebuild an accommodation block for the Officer’s Mess Hall. 

Lady Holmes wasn’t the only charitable member of the Holmes family. Lord Henley Holmes was often busy with the parish, the barrister’s favourite pastime being weaving his way through the pews of the old St Michael’s Church, while the setting sun cast sunbeams through the coloured stained-glass windows. Unfortunately, despite their finest efforts, the couple could not keep the old military hospital open but they did keep the building standing, the local government planning on reconstructing the bland, old building into housing. 

Lord and Lady Holmes were quite proud of their charity work but their greatest feat to date was their son Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft Holmes was one of those children that made other parents envious. He was courteous and polite, understanding that he would inherit the land and title of Halton and all that came with it. He was entirely too clever as well, graduating top of his class at college and receiving early admittance to Cambridge and while his father was disappointed that Mycroft wasn’t going to follow in his footsteps into law, Henley Holmes was very proud of his son’s steady rise in government work. 

What exactly Mycroft Holmes did was an excessive topic of discussion within the small village, with far-fetched suggestions of Mycroft being the Prime Minister’s right-hand-man to him even being the leader of MI6. One old Ms Simmons even suggested that Mycroft even knew the Queen! That produced titters from the other members of the Halton Knitting Club as absurd as the idea was. Still, Mycroft Holmes couldn’t visit his home village without the whispers of “Oh Lord, the things he must know,” shadowing him. 

The Holmes’ were a picturesque family but alas, every family had a black sheep.

It often went unnoticed that the Holmes’ actually had a second son. Seven years younger than his brother Mycroft, William Holmes was a secret that the Holmes’ never deliberately kept. It was always difficult to find the youngest Holmes, whether he be running ragged in the fields or locked away in his room, the only time the patrons of Halton saw the Holmes younger was if you happened to be walking down the streets in the dead of night or the rare occurrence at church. 

Even if you happened to catch a glance of him, you would never have guessed William was a Holmes. Where Henley and Mycroft’s hair was a soft auburn and Adalie’s was a soft light brown, William had deep, almost black, brunet ringlets. Where his father was soft-chinned and his mother and brother were round-faced, William was sharp. The only resemblance William had to his family was his father’s height and his mother’s eyes, a light grey-green with a tendency to shift colours like sea glass gleaming in the light. 

Personality wise, the Holmes’ were similar but with a contrast. Where mother and sons were able to read someone with a single glance, Lady Adalie and Mycroft were more discreet with their gifts while William used his to gain the upper hand and distance himself from others. While they were all geniuses in their own right, William wanted to know everything about anything while his family only every wanted to know what was useful to them.

The Holmes’ were careful and poised, understanding that they had a reputation to uphold and they were proud of their higher status in society. While William just wanted to learn and discover and live, not just exist and try not to suffocate under the intense pressure that came with his family’s name.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

_Halton, England_  
Wednesday  
July 3rd 1996 

If anyone asked Lady Holmes where her youngest son was all she would do was hum and shrug, a put-upon expression gracing her elegant face.

If anyone asked Nanny Beauharnais where William was, the aging lady would sigh fondly and point to the outer west field behind the old estate, murmuring exasperated French.

Sure enough, there was William Holmes, shifting through the woodland that he knew like the back of his hand. He held several different foliage samples and was searching for a _betula pubescens var. pumila_ leaf when he heard the French-accented calls of his nanny. 

“William! William! Inside now! _Souper_!”

Sherlock grumbled and pushed himself up from his knees. He stretched his long-abused spine straight, not bothering to brush the remnants of the forest floor off his trousers and headed back to the house.

He walked up the gravelled pathway leading to his house, exaggerating his steps in an attempt to dawdle, knowing how much his nanny hated it and also enjoying the delay of not entering the large, overbearing, and empty house one moment sooner than he had too.

He counted the tall shrubs - _cupressus leylandii_ \- that enclosed the path, enjoying the crunch of the pebbles breaking under his feet. Once he counted the fourteenth and final Leyland Cypress, he looked up and met the fond yet peeved expression of his nanny, giving her a sheepish smile in return. 

He jogged up the stone steps, barely hitting the quad floor before his nanny grabbed him by his _brachialis_ and pulling him towards the door. 

“Honestly, _cher_ , always late!” She harshly wiped him down, frowning at the sand and twigs falling to his feet. “And covered in _saleté_!” Her grip on his elbow grew tighter as did her frustration. She reached for his bundle of leaves and he jerked his hand away.

“No!” He said, a little too harshly and watched his nanny start a bit. “They- they’re my samples,” he explained. The nanny nodded, dubious about the mess but left the aforementioned sampled alone and went about wiping half the forest floor off of the boy. 

“Of course, William and maybe next time you do not go out gallivanting in your new clothes?” 

The teen ignored the jab and sucked his teeth in an effort not to spit a harsh remark about being called ‘William.” 

“Shoes off! The Lady does not appreciate dirt being tracked on the carpet.” 

“Mummy and Father are home?” Sherlock asked, toeing off his shoes and being pushed through the door, across plush carpet, and towards a spiraling staircase. 

“ _Est venu a la maison aujourd’hiu_.” 

“Did Mycroft come home today as well?” She nodded and Sherlock let out a groan. Childish yes, but Sherlock was only fifteen, so he allowed himself some juvenile sulking once in a while.

The nanny shook her head and tsked, fluttering her hands towards the second landing of the staircase. Sherlock took the hint and climbed the staircase, the cool metal railing chilling his hand. 

“Wash your face and hands.” Nanny Beauharnais called from the lower level. “And for goodness sake, _changement_!” 

Sherlock’s response was a disinterested hand gesture, thankfully concealed by a sharp corner turn. 

Sherlock made his way down the long hallway. 

He stopped just outside of his door, observing the porcelain vase on the Elizabethan –Victorian? All the same, really- stand. It was centered perfectly, the bunch of Sarah Raven _tulipa_ arranged neatly. Sherlock hummed. The vase had been off-centre when he left his room early morning, as he had bumped into it in his haste to get downstairs before the officers arrived. Nanny Beauharnais wouldn’t be up in this wing unless she was waking Sherlock up or coming up to scold him. One of the faceless maids could have tidied up, but there was a faint trace of too-heavy Dior cologne in the air. _Mycroft_. Damn Mycroft and his slight OCD. Sherlock pushed on the brass doorknob and let himself into his room, where it was thankfully empty. 

He walked through his room, carefully overstepping the large and extremely detailed map of London and carefully avoiding the copious amount of teacups beside his bed, many of which were forgotten about and left to chill. 

He pulled across his makeshift curtain, which was really a spare bed sheet Sherlock had pinned to the moulding, which opened his alcove. 

He walked up to his desk and pushed up the heavy shutter, pulling his current scrapbook from its place and flicked through the heavy and cluttered pages. Upon coming to a clean and fresh page, he flattened the inner spine and pulled his chair beneath him. The teen glued each leaf sample to the page and carefully wrote the scientific name beneath each. Sherlock ran his index finger over his labels, filing each leaves name and appearance to his mind palace.

Hornbeam ( _carpinus betulus_ ), Oak, English ( _quercus robur_ ), Oak, sessile ( _Quercus petraea_ ), Yew ( _Taxus baccata_ ), Willow, white ( _Salix alba_ ), Elm, wych ( _Ulmus glabra_ ), Elm, English ( _Ulmus minor var. vulgaris_ ), Beech, common ( _Fagus sylvatica_ ). Missing: Birch, Downy ( _betula pubescens var. pumila_ ). 

Satisfied with today's findings, Sherlock went about to get himself ready for dinner. 

He pulled his jumper, button-up, and vest over his head and threw it on his bed, goose pimples forming on skin, his arm hair standing to attention. Even in the middle of summer, the dusk air and the excessively oversized room brought a chill to his skin. He left to the bathroom, his socked feet sliding against the marble stone floor. He turned on the hot water tap, letting the deep basin fill. 

Sherlock scrubbed and scrubbed until his hands were pink and pulsing, all the dirt washed away from his exposed skin. He cupped a handful of water and made quick work of his face. He shivered as the hot water dripped down his cool skin. He looked up and was met with his pink-tinged face and tried in vain to calm his mop of curls with wet hands. Giving up, Sherlock made his way back to his room and in a not uncommon act of petty and rebellious adolescence, moved the vase of tulips to the far right of the table. 

Exactly twelve minutes later, Sherlock walked into the dining room and sat down in his usual seat in the middle of the table, directly opposite of Mycroft.

His brother was dressed in his usual three-piece suit, jacket unbuttoned with Grandfather Holmes’ golden pocketwatch draped delicately from one pocket. Sherlock noticed, with glee, that Mycroft’s waistcoat buttons were straining. 

_Seems as if the Golden Child’s been indulging a little too much lately_.  
Sherlock smirked and tugged his own navy blue button down straight, subtly (although he knew Mycroft was watching), patting his own flat belly. Mycroft frowned and Sherlock raised his eyebrows, keeping the rest of his face blank. He loved goading his brother. 

Sherlock took one last telling glance towards his brother’s midsection and turned his attention to the head of the table, where his father was sitting in his own suit. Lord Henley Holmes was more casually dressed than his eldest son, his suit jacket draped over the back of his mahogany chair, his shirtsleeves rolled up his forearms. Sherlock noted that his father seemed more grey around the temples and sat up straighter when the Lord focused his tense and aged-lined eyes towards his youngest son. 

“William,” Lord Holmes said, tilting his head in greeting. Sherlock sucked his front teeth, forcing down a scathing comment about his birth name, lest he get in trouble. “Thank you for finally gracing us with your presence. I was about to send your mother up to you.” He nodded towards his wife, whom was sitting at the other head of the table. Sherlock swallowed down a snort. His mother hasn’t been up to his room, let alone his wing, since Sherlock was old enough to make it up and down the staircases unaided. Even then, most of the time she sent Nanny Beauharnais first. 

“Sorry, Father.” He turned to his mother. “Sorry, Mummy.” His mother tightly smiled.

“Forgiven, William,” her accent still slightly French, even after all these years. His mother was quite a sight, looking as radiant and vibrant as ever, and the deep sapphire of her dress setting off the blue undertone of her fair skin. 

They made it through the appetiser before they spoke again. 

“How was your trip, Mummy and Father?” Mycroft asked, perfectly rounding his vowels. Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes while his mother preened, preparing to tell her most likely exaggerated, account of her and Father’s travels to the cottage in Sussex. 

“ _Oh, c’était magnifique. N’est-ce pas, Henley_?” His mother said, forgetting to translate into English in her excitement. She often did that.

“English, dear.” Sherlock’s father corrected absently, his attention towards the stack of papers he thought he had hidden on his lap.

Mummy tutted and ignored her husband’s interruption but still taking the time to switch to English. 

“The house is in good condition and it was so sunny. So much warmer there than it is here.”

“Did you see the Seven Sister’s cliffs, Mummy?” Mycroft asked. 

“Goodness no, you know your father. Him and his aversion to sand.” She chuckled lightly. “We did run into the Abbot-Dubois’ though. You remember them, don’t you boys? Marié and Lenard? Anyhow, Marié was telling me how Bernard Flannery was caught _en train de dormer_ with this working-class _personne_ , who is apparently a waitress. A waitress! Imagine the shame. I thought this was quite funny because Bernard Sampleton’s wife, Kitty, always said-“ 

Sherlock blocked his mother’s droning gossip out, instead focusing on the different minerals found in common sand and recalling their chemical names. He had just made it to zircon – _chemical name: zirconium, chemical formula: ZrSiO4_ – before he realised that his father was calling his name.

“William!” His father says, irritated. 

“Sorry, Father.” 

“Always off with the space cadets.” His father said, huffing. The teen ignored the clichéd figure of speech, hating that he largely never understood them. “I asked, ‘what did you do today?” 

“Oh,” Sherlock said, pressing back into his chair from where he had slumped forward in his sand-itemizing trance. He didn’t even notice that the main course had arrived, duck breast with gooseberry sauce. He internally cringed. He had been expecting fish and he didn’t want to eat something different. “We’re skipping fish?” 

“Well, it is Wednesday.” His father said, huffing a laugh. It was obviously a joke, as  
Mummy and Mycroft laughed. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. What did the day of the  
week have to do with the meals served at dinner? It was probably something he should know, but then again, Sherlock never paid any attention to his elocution lessons. His tutor, Mrs Knightly, had quit up after Sherlock set her _Dolce & Gabbana_ silk scarf on fire. 

Well, Sherlock thought it was _Dolce & Gabbana_. At least that’s what Mrs Knightly screamed shrilly at him as she stormed out of Halton House, fringe singed and half her right eyebrow missing, gripping the still smoking scarf tightly, the sickly smell of burnt silk lingering in the air. 

“So, William?” His father presses, cutting into his duck with practised ease. 

“Oh, I spent most of the day in the west forest, gathering foliage samples.” The teen preened. 

“Oh, yes, your leaf journal. How is that going, brother mine?” Mycroft’s smug voice  
asked. 

“It’s going well, thank you.” Sherlock said sharply, trying not to rise to his brother’s taunting. “I have managed to find, identify and label every tree or plant on our land.” He looked at his mother, hoping for a little approval. He knew how much time Mummy spent planning and consulting with the gardeners of Halton House.

However, he was met with a small frown on his mother’s elegant face, the downward turn of her mouth making the age lines at the corner of their shared eyes deeper.

“Surely not in your new trousers?” Sherlock went to reply but his father interrupted. 

“Do you want to be a botanist, son?” 

“No,” the younger Holmes replied, drawing out the sound. His left hand clenched around his fork. “Just really into dendrology, right now.” His father nodded. 

“Speaking of William’s future career, having you given any thought too where you will be studying next year?” Sherlock scowled at his brother. Sherlock was hoping to avoid the whole “where is your life going” conversation at least until the summer holidays were over. 

When it became apparent that Sherlock matched, or possibly even surpassed Mycroft in intelligence, the Holmes’ took no time at all in moving their youngest up a few years.

Sherlock was currently looking forward to his last year at college, taking six A-Levels and was only fifteen – _and a half_ -. Ever since the final year of Sherlock’s secondary education started dawning towards him, Sherlock’s parents have been questioning him about his future. Where he wanted to go, what he was going to study and what he was going to become. It was daunting, to say the least. 

“I don’t know where exactly, but I was thinking chemistry?” He hated the way he phrased it like a question, hoping to receive a positive reply no matter how improbable. 

“Excellent. A chemist is a good and profitable career, not to mention influential,” his father said. “I’m sure Oxford or Cambridge have an amazing science department. Have you decided on a school?” Sherlock shrugged.

“You’re going to have to choose a major soon though, William. It doesn’t matter what you choose, Oxford and Cambridge would be a fine choice. Plus, they would both absolutely love to have a Holmes.” Mummy was using her hands to express her point and Sherlock watched the glass of deep red Merlot in her hand slosh about, precariously close to spilling on the camlet tablecloth. “Or, you could be truly wild and go somewhere crazy. Like St Andrews!” 

Sherlock huffed a laugh, humouring her. Sherlock honestly didn’t care what school he went to. He only had two points of criteria; it had to have amazing laboratories and it had to be in London. Sherlock had always been fascinated about London and during the few trips he took there, he felt that the busy and hectic city was for him. 

It also helped that London was the location of Scotland Yard. 

That was another thing that Sherlock had ‘forgotten’ to tell his parents. While chemistry was something Sherlock immensely wanted to study, or really just have a valid reason to play and experiment with chemicals, it wasn’t what he wanted as a profession.

Sherlock wanted to be a detective. Not a detective for the police no, they were complete idiots and Sherlock was not. No, Sherlock wanted to be something above that. Someone that others came to when everyone else was incompetent and over their heads, which, let’s face it, was all the time. Detective work combined Sherlock loves of puzzles and oddly morbid things. 

Sherlock managed to get through the main course and onto dessert, expertly dodging or giving vague enough answers to his parent’s queries about his future. They didn’t push; thankfully, as the Lord and Lady were tired from their travels and his brother scoffing down food like a dog who hadn’t been feed in months. 

Dessert was Ispahan, with the small round cake coming on the gold dessert plates and Sherlock was pleased to see the confectionary. He picked the small red rose petal off and rubbed the petal between his thumb and forefinger, mushing the petal until it wet his thumb. He smelt the petal and identified it as the cadenza rose. Sherlock put the crushed petal on the edge of his plate, using his fingers to place raspberries in his mouth. 

“We don’t have any Cadenza roses,” Sherlock pointed out around a berry. 

“No, we don’t,” Father agreed. He raised his eyebrows at his son. “Nor do we talk with our mouths full.” Sherlock swallowed, shifting in his seat. “We also use silverware at the table.” The teen picked up his cake fork and sliced the round dessert down the middle. Sherlock cut two raspberries, their red juices leaking about his plate. Sherlock supposed it looked a little like blood. Too watery but still similar, and smiled at his slightly morbid thought. 

“Oh, before I forget. The RAF told me that the Red Arrows would be practising tomorrow, so William dear, if you’re going to paddle along in the woods tomorrow, just be aware of the noise. And don’t get in their way.” Sherlock could hear his mother’s unsaid _again_. It wasn’t his fault that they didn’t lock away their petrol tanks at the refuelling station.

Honestly, it’s almost as if they invited Sherlock to take a couple of litres. 

“Alright, Mummy.”

“Good, boy. Now, Mycroft, why don’t you tell us about you meeting Prime Minister John Major? It must have been terribly exciting.”

Sherlock tried not to choke himself on a raspberry. 

_Halton, England_  
Thursday  
July 4th, 1996 

Sherlock was up and out the door before the kitchen staff were even awake. Sherlock didn’t mind skipping breakfast, he enough at dinner the night before and he wanted to be out the house before the officers came trampling throughout the lower sitting rooms. 

It was Practise Day, so all the members of the Red Arrows, or more correctly, The Royal Air Force Acrobatics Team, would be overtaking the estate like ants and Normally, when there was any sort of official British Armed Forces gathering, Sherlock would lock himself in the lower-south wine cellar, the climate control system Father put in place being the perfect at-home lab for his climate-sensitive experiments. 

However, the aircraft noise that the Red Arrows made was such a thundering roar that every time one of the BAE Hawk T1s flew overhead Halton House, it shook the estate and you could feel the aftershocks everywhere, especially in the below ground basement rooms. 

Sherlock preferred not to have a mini earthquake every five minutes, plus his nature catalogue experiment was still very much ongoing, so he wandered out to the same patch of forest he was yesterday and set about to record and study the different types of summer fungi growing in the woods. 

Sherlock didn’t know how long he had been out, but his knees were sore and his neck was aching. He stood up and stretched, cracking his back as he rose. He stood on his right leg trying, futilely, to shake the soil out of his shoes and registered a sharp pain on his right calf. Sherlock sat back down and rolled his trouser leg up to his knee, revealing quite a deep cut, which was already dribbling blood. He couldn’t remember cutting himself, but it wouldn’t be the first time he was oblivious to his injuries gained while lost in his mind palace. 

He poked at the cut; wincing at the sharp stab of pain it brought him. 

“Bloody hell, you’re bleeding.” 

Sherlock looked up at the unexpected voice. 

Sherlock’s sharp green eyes met the face of an unknown boy, standing on the tree stump five feet away from him. The boy was older than Sherlock, but not by much. Sherlock would put his age at around seventeen or eighteen. He had wide-set shoulders and was muscly but lean. His face was round, with lingering baby-fat still sitting on his jaw and cheeks. His eyes were dark blue, framed by thin golden lashes. His brows were quite tame for a male and a deeper shade of blond than the mop that sat on his head. His face was pulled up into an expression of concern, one hand out as if Sherlock were a frightened animal. 

“Are you alright?” His voice was soft and his accent suggested he wasn’t from around here and Sherlock could hear underlining tones of Scottish. 

The boy stepped off the tree stump, landing with a soft _oomf_. 

“You’re trespassing on private property,” Sherlock said. The boy stopped and looked surprised. He blinked and his smile turned sheepish.

“Sorry,” he apologised and Sherlock noted that he didn’t seem all that sorry. “I just wanted to watch the air show and I got a bit lost.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you want a band-aid?” 

The boy didn’t wait for Sherlock’s answer; he just walked up to him and dropped his bag on the floor next to Sherlock. The blond knelt and opened the front pocket, pulling out a red and white first aid kit. 

“Ah, I don’t have gloves.” The strange boy smiled at Sherlock apologetically, as if this stranger’s lack of latex hand protection was an honest concern of Sherlock’s. Sherlock shrugged, a bewildered expression on his face. 

“Oh well, I have antiseptic cream. “ The boy pulled out a small white tube from his kit and squeezed a dollop of the white cream on his finger. 

“This might hurt.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I have a high pain-“ Sherlock cut himself off with a muffled noise of pain.

“Sorry,” the boy apologised again and Sherlock huffed and pouted. “So, what are _you_ doing out here?” Sherlock watched the boy rub the cream into his wound with practised ease. It didn’t hurt badly, but it still stung.

“Collecting some specimen.” The boy looked up and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock huffed again and pointed at the small cluster of fungi by their right. 

“Mushrooms?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“ _Agaricus campestris_. Or field mushroom, to put it in layman’s term. I’ve done the leaves, or most of them, so now I’m onto fungus.” 

“Wow, you must be a _fun guy_.” The blond joked; a grin teetering on his face as he pulled his bottom lip in, trying not to smile. Sherlock rolled his eyes playfully and huffed out a small laugh. 

“Nice one.” The boy smiled at him and Sherlock was taken aback by the force and the brightness of it. 

The blond wiped the remnants of the cream off his finger onto his trousers and pulled out a hideously bright neon pink bandage. The blond furrowed his brow. 

“Sorry, only colour left.”

“It’s fine.” 

Once the bandage was stuck on Sherlock’s leg, the blond stood up and offered Sherlock a hand up. Sherlock hesitated. He never really had enjoyed other people touching him. 

The other boy went to pull his hand back but Sherlock figured that he already let the boy patch him up, so it couldn’t be that bad. 

Sherlock took the upturned left hand, feeling the calloused and dry palm of the older boy. 

Once pulled to his feet, Sherlock smiled in thanks and let go, brushing the dirt off his arse. He was pleased to note that he didn’t feel the need to lob his hand off, which was always a positive thing. 

“So, why else are you here? It seems like a bit of a feat to come all the way from the South East just for an air show.” 

The blond tilted his head and smiled at Sherlock, a question in his eyes. 

“I’m volunteering at the RAF nursing home in Halton Camp for my summer holidays. And how did you know I was from?” 

Sherlock shrugged, trying to give off the ambiance of nonchalance, where truly his insides were singing at being right. 

“Accent.”

“Ah. Anyway, I heard that the Red Arrows were practising so I biked down and obviously got lost, and now here we are.” 

Sherlock hummed but it was drowned out by the sudden, deafening rumble of a BAE Hawk T1 zooming overhead. Sherlock looked up at the canopy of the forest, watching the tail end of the plane go over their heads. He looked at the blond, whose head was still angled up, watching the contrails left behind by the plane fade. The boy had a look of absolute wonder softening his already round face and it made something foreign twist inside Sherlock. 

“Do you want a better vantage point?” Sherlock widened his eyes, shocked at his words.

He _always_ thought before he spoke but something about the childlike awe in the face of the boy before him made him turn dumb. The boy looked at him, eyebrow raised. Sherlock noted that he had a very expressive face.

“The-the- did you see the Belvedere on top of the roof?” Sherlock asked. At the boy’s confused look, Sherlock launched into the best explanation he could give. “The tower, right on top of the building?” He lifted his hand as if his absent hand gestures could actually help teach the blond boy in front of him architectural terms. “It has an oval-shaped top?” The blond shook his head. “It sort of looks like a bell tower?”

Blue eyes lit up in comprehension. 

“Yeah, I saw it. Christ, that’ll be brill, but how would we get up there?” 

“Stairs.” Sherlock turned away and started to walk back to his house, assuming the boy would follow. 

“W-w-wait,” the boy said, tugging on Sherlock’s bicep, turning him around. “We just met and we’re breaking into this fucking huge mansion? I don’t even know your name.” 

Sherlock smiled.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and we’re not breaking in. I live there.” 

Not waiting for a reply, Sherlock spun around and started walking again. He heard the noise of feet hitting the forest floor at a jogging pace.

He felt the boy brush against his left shoulder, his pace slowing now that he caught up with Sherlock. He wasn’t pink in the face or out of breath, but Sherlock knew that the boy was athletic by his toned calves. Not that he noticed or was at all interested.

“John,” the blond said, stepping in front of Sherlock, not breaking his stride, confidently walking backward and held out his right hand. “John Watson.” Sherlock took the offered hand, feeling the slight weakness in the wrist. 

“Left-handed?” John settled back next to Sherlock as they walked up the gravelled pathway. 

“Yeah!” John said, smiling. “Wait, didn’t you want your ‘agatha campsis’ mushroom thingies?” 

Sherlock let out a chuckle.

“ _Agaricus campestris_ ,” he corrected. Sherlock contemplated going back but there was something about the other boy, something about John that intrigued him. “It’s fine. They’ll be there tomorrow.” 

They walked up the rest of the gravelled path in comfortable silence. Sherlock was so strangely at ease that he didn’t even need to count the tall shrubs flanking them. 

Sherlock looked at John from the corner of his eyes, catching John’s own gaze quickly jump away from Sherlock and towards the sky. 

They walked through the back entrance, a wave of cold air flowing over them as they stepped into the chilly, airy house and out of the warm summery day. 

“Should I take my shoes off?” John asked, glancing at the clean burgundy carpet. 

“Definitely.” 

Shoes toed off, Sherlock took John’s left wrist and yes, there was the strength you usually found in someone’s dominate hand. “This way.” 

Sherlock took John up the stairs and into the west wing. They proceeded down the long hallway, passing Sherlock’s room, the upstairs study, and the less formal dining room. Sherlock stopped when John stopped, letting the boy gaze and admire with ease, explaining things when John asked and finding himself not mocking like he usually would.

“So, do you actually live here? Because I thought only the RAF was stationed here.” They walked passed an awful portrait of a long-dead relative. “Who’s that?” 

“Someone dead.” John gave a small snort. “Anyway, to answer your former question; we live in the main house, which is where we are now. The rectangle building is the RAF Officer’s Mess Hall. It’s used to be a garden or something and Mummy converted it for them to use. The larger building with the courtyard in the middle on the opposite side is used for accommodation. When the local barracks send soldiers here for training, that’s where they stay.”

“Sounds like fun.” 

Sherlock turned and graced John with an appalled look. 

“It’s hell, honestly. Trying to get anything done with my parents around is hard enough, just imagine trying to do anything with half of the British Air Force hanging about.”

John laughed and Sherlock decided that he quite liked making the other boy laugh.

They reached the end of the hall and Sherlock opened the door, revealing a dusty staircase. 

“Up we go.” Sherlock pulled John through the doorway and up the stairs. The door slammed behind them and left them in almost complete darkness, the only light source coming from the gaps in the ceiling. 

Sherlock went first, the staircase too narrow for them to be side by side. He felt a hand grip the back of his jumper and he startled.

“Sorry,” John coughed. He loosened his hand but didn’t completely let go, holding on by a pinch of fabric. “It’s just…dark.”

“No, it’s fine.” He could feel the warmth of John’s hand through the thin layers of his summer wardrobe. He cleared his throat. “It’s okay, hold on if you need too.”

Sherlock could have sworn that the climb up was normally a lot shorter than it now appeared to be. Like the shrubs outside, he usually counted the steps; all twenty-eight of them, but now Sherlock couldn’t concentrate on that. All he could focus on was the warm and oddly comforting press of John’s knuckles to his lower back. 

They reached the top and Sherlock pushed open the trapdoor, pulling himself through. When he was safely up, he turned to give John a hand up, but the boy in question was already pulling himself up, biceps bulging at the strain through his thin shirt. 

John kicked the trapdoor down with his foot and smiled proudly at Sherlock.

“Prominent _bicep brachii_ and _deltoid_ muscles.” Sherlock mumbling under his breath. John must have heard his as he smiled and rubbed at said muscles. 

“Thanks. You too.” 

Sherlock felt his cheeks warm. He was blushing, which was stupid. It made no sense that John’s comment could cause the blood vessels in his cheeks to dilate.

He turned to face behind the estate to spot a Union Jack painted plane coming towards them. 

“John, get ready and block your ears.” The boy beside him did as he was told and they both watch the plane above them do loops, rolls, spin and hammerheads, graceful gliding and whirling through the clear blue sky. 

Their fingers in their ears did muffle the noise but each time a plane flew overhead, 84.9 decibels of sound hit their eardrums and so, when the Hawks made their final flips and flew off toward the refuelling station, Sherlock’s head was ringing. 

He slid down and pulled his knees to his chest. John slid down opposite him, face pink with glee and eyes shining. 

“Amazing. Absolutely amazing.” Sherlock rested his chin on his knees, watching the boy with utter fascination. “Just awesome, the way that the flips seem so natural. Just, wow.” 

Sherlock smiled. They rested and let their hearing fully come back. John pulled out a cheese sandwich, offering Sherlock half. He hesitated, but his long-forced-upon-him politeness took over. He took the offered sandwich and nibbled at it, watching John scoff his down. 

“So how old are you?” 

Sherlock sucked his teeth. 

“Fifteen.” He took a bite. “Although, I am in sixth form this coming year.” 

“Same,” John nodded, speaking around half-chewed bread and cheese. “But seventeen. That’s another reason why I’m up here. To look at unis.” 

“Ah. King’s or Imperial?” 

John stopped and lowed his sandwich. He fixed Sherlock a look of interest and huffed. 

“King’s. How did-“

“Obvious, really.” Sherlock interrupted, wiping his mouth of crumbs. “You met a bleeding stranger in an unknown place and helped him. You had a first aid kit in your bag and you’re volunteering at a nursing home, so you are obviously an aiding sort.”

“I could be doing community service.” John offered, beaming. 

“Possibly,” Sherlock agreed. “But unlikely. You didn’t want to enter this house until you knew it was mine, therefore not a criminal. Plus, why would you be doing community service so far away from your home? That brings us to the universities. Imperial and King’s are the most popular in London.” 

“How did you guess London? I could have been going to the University of Buckinghamshire.” John asked, egging Sherlock on. He looked fascinated. Sherlock never saw that look on someone’s face when he was deducing them and now that he saw it on John’s face, he felt like he needed it. 

“Easy, you have a heap of London Underground passes. You also have one of those tacky ‘I Love London’ keychains on your bag.” 

John looked at him wide-eyed and stunned. 

“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.” 

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?” 

“Piss off.” 

The profanity sounded strange in Sherlock’s mouth, him not used to swearing. The last time Nanny Beauharnais heard him curse; she washed his mouth out with soap. 

John laughed. 

“What else can you guess about me?” Sherlock squared his shoulders and looked John up and down; letting his gaze focus on the bits of data John was unknowingly broadcasting. 

He cleared his throat.

“One of your parents is Scottish. I’d go with mother, based on the fact that with certain words your accent becomes more pronounced and while it could be your father, it’s only with words of praise that your accent becomes thicker.” Sherlock watched John swallow. “So mother then, as your father doesn’t praise you as much as you desire. Probably because of your overshadowing brother or most likely because of his drinking. But with words like ‘amazing’ and ‘brilliant’, your tone becomes softer and more northern--northeast Scottish? So Scottish mother.” 

John just stared at him and Sherlock stared back. 

Both simultaneously relishing and disliking John’s gaze, Sherlock cleared his throat. 

“And your brother bit obvious that.” Sherlock pointed at the mouth of John’s bag where the words _Harry B. Watson_ were printed in permanent marker. “Older brother’s bag, in good shape, newish model, only about fifteen months old. If it were in good shape, why would he give it to you? He got a new one, a better one. Probably because he made captain of the swim team.” 

John raised an eyebrow, looking more and more bemused the more Sherlock rambled. 

“The bag reeks of chlorine, and it couldn’t have been you as your hair is not dry enough or light enough to be a swimmer's. Swimmers’ hair generally tends to be beached by the constant exposer to chlorine. How did I know that he made captain? Well, why else would a father buy his son a new bag? You are not well off, no offense; but your jeans have been mended multiple times and don’t fit you properly, probably more hand-me-downs. So why would he make that unnecessary purchase? Apparently, fathers are proud of their children being put in charge of a sports team.” 

Sherlock stopped and took a deep breath. John narrowed his eyes looking from Sherlock to his bag, to his jeans and then back to Sherlock again. 

“You only looked at me for about a minute. How did you get all that in a minute?” Sherlock shrugged, not knowing how to explain it. He was just relieved and very glad that John wasn’t forming a mob, lighting torches and chasing him around with pitchforks shouting, “ _burn the witch_.” 

Sherlock shook his head at the image, vowing not to watch anymore black and white movies with Nanny Beauharnais again. 

“Jesus,” John breathed. Sherlock stood up and John followed him, opening the trapdoor that led them back inside the house. “How-how-how?”

“Questions later. I’m getting cold, we can continue this inside.” 

Sherlock sat down, his feet dangling precariously through the trapdoor, ready to jump. He stopped and looked up at John. “Tha-that is if you want to still hang out.”

John looked down at him, an amazed grin stretching over his expressive face, small ‘ha’ passing his lips. His bag was slung over his shoulder and his hand gripping the strap, making his bicep bulge. It wasn’t overly big, but there was still an underlining of strength there and Sherlock felt hot and cold at the same time. 

“Of course,” John replied, sitting down next to Sherlock, his slightly longer legs swinging beside Sherlock’s. 

“Cool.” Sherlock jumped down to hide his smile. _Stupid_. “Okay, your turn.” 

Sherlock felt a rush of air and then heard the heavy thud of John landing next to him. He heard John mutter something about his bad knees. 

They made their way down the stairs, John’s hand now at Sherlock’s shoulder, the heat burning Sherlock’s skin but he didn’t care. They didn’t speak, something about the rickety staircase, the stale air, and the light beaming through the roof, highlighting the dust particles floating in the air, caused the atmosphere to be almost idyllic. 

 

 

“This is your room?” the blond repeated, gazed skyward as he studied the artex-textured ceiling. 

Sherlock’s room wasn’t much, well compared to the rest of the main estate. 

It was large, Sherlock gave John that, but it was crammed and overflowing, much like Sherlock’s mind. The bed was a double with four-posters, made from not being slept in. The floor was hardwood, but it was covered in many loose papers, books, teacups, and clothes. The large windows were covered by rich and heavy draperies, easy for Sherlock to block out the world on his bad days. Sherlock’s favourite part of his room was the little nook behind his bed. You wouldn’t know it was there until you stepped into his room and even then you had to crane your head around to peak into it. That was where Sherlock’s grandfather’s desk was, as well as a large leather armchair. 

“Dear God, you’re posh,” John exclaimed, laughing to himself. Sherlock looked offended, turning to face John to where the boy had been sitting on his bed. “Don’t look at me like that,” John said. “You have swirls on your ceiling!” He pointed up. “You know what I have on my ceiling? Water stains!”

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms.

“Not posh.” The younger boy grumbled.

“You have a secret study!” 

“Not a secret.”

“You have a wardrobe that probably houses Narnia!” 

Sherlock looked at him blankly.

“That doesn’t make any-“

“Bed curtain!” John cut in, one hand wrapped around the soft silk material. Sherlock watched the light green material glide it’s way over John’s hand, mesmerised. Sherlock huffed, embarrassed. 

“Alright, I’m posh. And it’s a canopy bed, John, of course, it has curtains.” John threw his hands in the air, making a sarcastic ‘ _oh of course, how could I not know that_ ’ expression. Sherlock laughed and moved to sit cross-legged beside John. The bed dipped under the extra weight and the boy’s knees touched. 

Sherlock didn’t move away because John didn’t move away.

Sherlock pulled his sleeves over his hands and steepling them just in front of his mouth, giving John a levelling look. 

“So,” Sherlock said, elongating the syllable, moving his hand down to his chin. “Did I get anything wrong?” 

John hummed, his eyes darting up to meet Sherlock’s in a questioning gaze. Sherlock drew his gaze and nodded towards the roof. 

“My mother is from Scotland. Aberdeen, if you want to be pedantic. Da does like Harry better, although I don’t know where you got the drinking from and no, we are not well off.” 

Sherlock nodded, he didn’t expect to be 100% right about everything but- 

“Harry is short for Harriet.” John interrupted, ceasing Sherlock’s self-praising. The blond smiled, not unkindly. Sherlock noticed that his central incisors and lateral incisors were crooked. 

“Sister,” Sherlock muttered to himself. “Always something.” He kept muttering to himself, wringing his hands in his lap. 

“Hey,” a soft voice said, an equally soft hand touching Sherlock’s. Sherlock looked up to see John a lot closer than he was expecting, his brows drawn close together, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You couldn’t have guessed,” he supplied. “Harry’s a tomboy. S’difficult.” 

Sherlock met his eyes; confused at the emotion he was experiencing. It was odd, being consoled and not placated. It wasn’t something that happened often or even recently and the only person who tried to pull Sherlock from these moods were Nanny Beauharnais and that was only because she was paid too. But for someone to make sure he actually felt better? Odd, but not unpleasant. 

A small smile crossed the younger’s face.

“Wanna’ show me your leaf collection?” John asked, his voice still soft. Sherlock’s green eyes lit up. 

He grabbed the hand that was still on top of his and pulled John into the alcove, practically shoving him into the plush leather chair. 

The boy snorted, allowing himself to be manhandled by the slighter boy. 

Sherlock grabbed his most recent scrapbook and sat on the arm of the chair, his hip pressing up against John’s shoulder. He placed he scrapbook onto the expecting lap. 

Sherlock watched as John browsed through his leaf study, taking care by pinching the bottom corners and slowly turning each glue-and-plant heavy page with the utmost care. His short fingers stroked each carefully penned label and pinned leaf, taking in Sherlock’s small notes on the location and variety of each plant. 

John’s hand traced a square around the vacant spot on the last page. 

“What are you missing?” 

“Downy Birch. They have long stumps and their branches sort of spray everywhere.” 

John looked up, nodding.

“Oh, cool. I think I have some near my house actually.” 

Sherlock blinked and he felt his mouth twitch. John went through the book again, mouthing the Latin names to himself. The younger boy looked down at him from his perch, observing the different shades of blond of the boy’s head, also noting the pinkish-red the boys scalp. _Been out in the sun a lot, no hat. Bad form for a future doctor_. 

“You should really wear a hat. Excessive sun exposer to your scalp at a young age could result in premature hair loss later in life.” 

He heard the other boy scoff and if it were possible, Sherlock could almost feel the roll of his eyes. 

“Sorry, mum,” came the sarcastic reply, the boy’s second-hand Scottish accent showing its face again. 

Sherlock grumbled and slid on the arm of the chair. He felt John follow him. 

“So, are you just studying for fun or do you wanna’ be like a plant scientist or something?” John asked, placing the read scrapbook gently down. He wasn’t looking at Sherlock but stroking and exploring all of Sherlock’s books and knick-knacks that decorated his desk. He picked up a preserved scorpion and twirled it around in his hands, grimacing. 

“It’s useful to know the plant-life around us. You never know when you might need this information.” Sherlock explained, watching John look through the glass prison of the scorpion. “And that’s Scully.” 

John put Scully down.

“From the X-Files?” 

Sherlock obviously looked confused as John continued.

“The investigating show?” Sherlock perked up. “You know, about aliens?” Sherlock deflated, exasperated. What was it with people these days and their stupid theories about life in space?

His displeasure with this thought must have shown on his face as John huffed a laugh at him.

“No, obviously not. Scully got his name as a childish attempt to suggest to my mother that I actually wanted a skull, not a preserved _hottentotta tamulus_ , but she failed to pick up the hint but still, I suppose I’m grateful.” Sherlock said, tapping at the glass cube that was once in John’s hands. “At least she remembered my birthday.” He added under his breath. 

John obviously caught it as Sherlock saw the sadness in the boy’s face. He opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock interrupted him. 

“He is fascinating though.” He said, once again tapping said fascinating creature, his nail making a clean tap against the glass. “The _hottentotta tamulus_ is rated as one of the most lethal scorpion species in the world. Although most victims are children, and the fatality rates are only about 8-40%.” 

John looked wearily at the glassed killer. 

‘Relax. They inhabit India, Pakistan, and Nepal. You’re unlikely to meet one, even if you do end up going to combat.”

John tipped Scully onto his side and made a soft noise.

“Combat?”

“Yes, you are going to join the army, are you not? What, with your fascination with the Red Arrows that brought you here today and the way you straightened subconsciously as you walked past the portrait of the General in the hall, the deduction itself was easy enough.” 

John smiled softly.

“To you maybe. I haven’t really told anyone else.” He clenched his jaw and looked away. 

Sherlock shrugged. It was obvious that John didn’t want to talk about it. 

They spent the next couple of minute going through everything on Sherlock’s desk. John was fascinated at everything and Sherlock was fascinated at John’s reactions to everything. He was especially delighted at John’s giggle at his Newton’s Cradle apparatus, playing with it and making a joke about him playing with Newton’s balls. 

“Oh sweet.” John suddenly exclaimed, almost knocking over Sherlock glass beaker full of pens in his haste. He picked up Sherlock Polaroid camera with glee. 

“Yeah, that’s-“ Sherlock was cut off by the blinding light of a flash. 

He watched John take the photograph from the camera and shake it with glee. 

Sherlock rapidly blinked his eyes, trying to rid himself of the floaters in his vision. He mumbled a profanity in French, rubbing at his abused eyes. 

“Sorry,” John said, not look a bit remorseful at all. He beamed when the photograph finally filtered into existence. The photo itself was well lit as the subject, Sherlock, was facing the open windows. Sherlock studied the photograph of himself, grimacing at the stupid expression that was on his face. 

“Nice face.” John teased. Sherlock rolled his eyes. How could one possibly look good when they were caught off guard? And in the middle of talking, no less? He took the camera from John and snapped one of the other boy before he knew it was coming. 

The flash went off and John squawked. Sherlock giggled to himself and wiggled out the way as John made a leap at the camera. Sherlock ran to his bed with John close on his heels. He leaped up, hanging onto one of the canopy posts for balance. He studied the newly taken photograph and frowned.

“Not fair,” he complained, shaking the photograph at its subject. “You look alright in yours.” 

John looked up at Sherlock from his position on the floor at the end of Sherlock’s bed. 

“Please, I’m talking in the midst of mine. You at least look like you’re posing.” And the blond boy did. The picture was a quite nice of him, with his profile in view and a smile gracing his boy-next-door face. His blond hair was tousled from their early excursion to the roof and his cheeks were flushed in a strangely endearing way, the flash not making him looked washed out as it did for Sherlock and his painfully pale skin but made him look smooth and soft. 

Do not.” John countered and swiped at the photograph again. Sherlock let him grab it. He jumped down from the bed and made his way back to the alcove. John followed him, both pictures clutched in each hand. 

“Here,” the older boy said, placing both photos down on Sherlock’s desk. He immediately started searching through Sherlock’s stuff again, making a small, pleased noise when he found a black permanent marker. He scribbled something on the white space at the bottom of each one. 

Sherlock leaned over the taller - _only by an estimated three and a half inches_ \- boy’s shoulder to see what he wrote.

In John’s, surprisingly neat handwriting both photographs were captioned: “ _4/7/97 day we met!_ ” 

Sherlock frowned as he read it aloud. John turned to face him, a smile on his face. 

“Yeah!” He grinned even harder. “It’s important to remember what day you meet your friends.” 

Sherlock frowned, harder. He was certain there was a disconnect in his ears to his brain or maybe something wrong with his _cochlea_ as John couldn’t have said what Sherlock thought he said, could he?

“Friends?” Sherlock hated how small and insecure his tone had become without his permission. He hardened his voice. His defenses rising up. “I don’t have friends.” 

John looked as if someone had kicked a puppy. 

“Sherlock-“ he started. No, Sherlock hunkered down. 

He didn’t deserve pity, he didn’t need pity, and he didn’t want pity. He was fine alone. Preferred it, really. He didn’t need friends to make him happy. He was happy –content- alone. Alone was ideal. Alone was safe. Alone didn’t leave you unprotected in a huge, empty house, fending for yourself against your parents because it decided to go to university sixty-one point one miles away. 

He shook his head at John. 

It was silent for a few minutes as Sherlock watched John and John watched him back. 

Sherlock broke first.

“Don’t pity me, John.”

“I don’t pity you.” He said, walking toward him and cupping Sherlock’s left shoulder. “I pity those who never got the chance to know and appreciate how remarkably brilliant Sherlock-“ John paused, waiting for Sherlock to interject. 

“Holmes.” Sherlock reminded.

“How remarkably brilliant Sherlock Holmes is.” He said it with such surety that Sherlock almost felt compelled to believe him. Instead, Sherlock stared at him.  
He knew he was gaping. His brain was fighting him, telling him to say something, intelligent or not but his face was somehow unable to move despite his brain’s best efforts. Sherlock made a mental note to call a neurosurgeon, as he was positive that there was something amiss with his brain today. 

John just stared back, allowing the younger boy to take in his compliment. John was positive he didn’t receive them much, despite how brilliant he was. 

“Friends,” was what came out of Sherlock’s mouth. Not the most intelligent thing ever, but still, it was a word which was good progress. 

“Yes,” John said, nodding slowly. His caregiver gene was coming out again and he pushed Sherlock gently to sit down on the leather armchair. “We’re friends. Well, you’re my friend.” He corrected. “Whether you like it or not, honestly.” John chuckled to himself.

Sherlock let out a small laugh, slowly but surely coming out of the stupor John had left him in. 

“You’re my friend too,” Sherlock added, voice wobbly and unsure.

“Great!” John exclaimed, spinning around on his heels to face the desk. “Then I’ll be taking-“ he picked up the photograph of Sherlock. “-this.” 

Sherlock was confused and he didn’t like the feeling but he supposed that having a picture of one’s friend is something that one did, when they had friends. 

Sherlock heard the rhythmic drumming of a snare drum in the distance. 

“What’s that?” John asked, moving around Sherlock to peak out the windows. 

“Oh, that’s the 16 Air Assault Brigade practising their loaded march. They practise every Practise Day around four-thirty. They come all the way from Essex, just to march.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

John’s eyes widened.

“Shite, it’s four-thirty already?” 

Sherlock nodded, standing up.

“Need to go?” 

“Yeah, I’m on the afternoon slash evening shift. If I’m late Biyu will kill me.” 

They left Sherlock’s room, John’s backpack slapping against his lower back as they practically ran down the stairs. 

John grabbed his shoes, slipping them on while Sherlock stayed barefooted.  
They walked down the gravel pathway again, only stopping when they came to the gated end of the Holmes’ land. 

John climbed over the fence and picked up his bike from where it was stashed in the shrubs. 

“I don’t have work ‘til three tomorrow. I’m on evening shifts this week. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Sherlock looked at John. It didn’t seem possible that only three hours ago this boy was a stranger. Sherlock had assumed, (if discounting John’s earlier comments about them being friends,) that he would never see him again. He reckoned that their ‘friendship’ was a temporary one and that John would soon forget about the strange boy he met bleeding in a foreign forest. 

Sherlock didn’t like the feeling of his stomach dropping at the thought of never seeing John again, as bizarre as it was. But, John wanted to see him again. Sherlock, with all of his weird habits and peculiarities. 

Sherlock studied John’s face, looking for any sign of dishonesty, but found none. All see saw was tension, in the boy’s eyes and shoulders.

His eyes dropped to John’s left hand, where the polaroid of Sherlock sat, getting slightly crumpled. 

“Yeah,” Sherlock confirmed, watching the boy’s shoulders drop in relief, which only added to Sherlock’s confused state. “I’ll probably be where I was today.”

“Cool,” John grinned, swinging his leg over his bike and settling into the uncomfortable looking seat. “See ya tomorrow, Sherlock.” 

He set off and rode down the road, waving as he went. 

Sherlock waved back, watching him get smaller and smaller the further away he got. 

 

Back in Halton House’s lower-west parlour, Nanny Beauharnais stopped Sherlock.

“William, there you are!” The nanny said, exasperated. “ _Je vous ai cherché monsieur, pendant des heures_.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

He was doubtful that she had been looking for him for hours, one at least. Sherlock deduced, due to her slight flush and the dark pink Pimms stain on her right cuff, that his nanny had actually spent her time flirting with some of the military men in the drawing room. 

Sherlock held his tongue. It wouldn’t do to offended and possibly alienate his only ally in the madhouse. 

Nanny Beauharnais clicked her tongue and sent him upstairs for a bath.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made his way to his bathroom, accepting the soft, cream towels one of the maids intercepted him with. 

 

 

He relaxed his legs and leaned against the rim of the bath, steepling his hands under his chin, recalling the findings of the day. 

He had succeeded in finding and identifying _Boletus edulis_ and _Agaricus campestris_ before John interrupted him. 

John Watson.

John was not something Sherlock could have anticipated. 

It was ridiculous, Sherlock had only known him for an estimated four hours and he was already distracting him

Sherlock leant his head back against the tiles; categorizing everything he knew about one, John Watson into his mind palace. The sooner he got this over and done with, the better he could focus on more important things, like his plant study. 

`Name: John Watson`  
Age: Seventeen  
P.O.B: Southeast England (exact location unknown)  
Height: 5’6,  
Goals: Doctor. Army doctor  
Notes: Wanted to study in London. Doesn’t get along with father or sister. Close with mother. Found Sherlock interesting. Wanted to see Sherlock again. Wanted to be Sherlock’s _friend_. Had nice eyes and an easy smile. 

Sherlock’s data was corrupt. 

Sherlock shook his head to clear the last few notes and the images that sprang to mind. He instead focused on the enigma that was John Watson. How did such an ordinary boy interest Sherlock so? And so easily?

Sherlock wasn’t familiar with the feeling that accompanied the thought of John. The way his toes curled and the way his thighs tremor and the need to take deeper breaths.

Frustrated with himself, Sherlock slid down until his head was fully submerged. 

He sat there for a few seconds, blowing harsh breaths out of his nose, listening to the muffled sound of them breaking on the surface. 

When it pained him too much to stay down longer, he surfaced, gasping and rubbing his eyes free of water. He ran his hands through his water heavy hair, pulling on the follicles to force his focus. 

Why John? Sherlock had met much more interesting and intellectually stimulating boys at Harrow. Not to mention, more attractive. 

Not that John Watson wasn’t attractive. He was just more of a ‘boy next door’, innocent, cheek grabbing attractive. Sherlock was surrounded by soldiers that were fit and grown and _men_. 

 

 

Sherlock sat on his bed, a towel tied around his waist and continued his train of thought as he air-dried. 

It wouldn’t do for Sherlock to become attached to John in that way. No. It was terribly cliché that Sherlock would start to crush on his new and only friend. A friend that was probably straight. 

At least, statistically. 

It was like a bad plot out of one of those books that Mummy’s goddaughter Quinn left when she has stayed with them this past autumn.

Sherlock dressed for dinner, leaving his hair to dry by itself, already dreading the frizz and mayhem of his curls. He stopped on the middle foyer of the stairs, watching a stray soldier walk through the corridor. 

`Flight lieutenant, based on his insignia on his sleeve`.

Sherlock studied the way the military-tailored trousers shifted and tightened with each step the soldier took. When the lieutenant walked out of Sherlock’s sight, the boy carried on with his musings. 

It’s not as if his preference for his alike gender concerned him. His mother was French, for God’s sake. No, it was his apparent preference for smiley, blond, wannabe doctors that concerned him. He hated this feeling of almost inflammation just behind his _pectoralis major_. 

 

He sat at his usual spot at the dining table, frowning as he saw one of the kitchen maids set out a plate for Mycroft. 

His family joined him after a few moments, and their conversation was almost the exact script as last night’s, except that Mummy had been down to the village today. 

“Oh, Halton has really changed in the weeks we were away.” Mummy fluttered, hand clutched at the dainty diamond necklace at her throat. 

Sherlock swallowed down a snort. Halton hasn’t managed to change since the 1940’s, let alone in the two weeks that the Lord and Lady were absent. Sherlock was almost certain that was still original WWII posters in the local post office, telling Brits to enlist. 

He looked up to spot Mycroft’s expression in one the same of his own. His brother has pulled his thin lips in and had scrunched up his nose. The Holmes boys shared a look in a way only once-close siblings could. 

Mycroft shook his head minutely, and they both took a subtle deep breath and pulled themselves together. 

Their father, on the other hand, wasn’t as good as schooling his expression. His father’s handsome features were creased up in a look of slight exasperation. 

Henley Holmes loved his wife dearly, but they way she over-exaggerated every minor thing left him maddened. 

Dinner went on as usual. Sherlock gritting his teeth at his birth name, Father and Mycroft’s piercing questions about his future and Mummy’s almost whimsical retellings of all the scandalous escapades of the members of ‘higher society’. 

Sherlock was careful not to mention John at all, whether to avoid the questions about his new "friend" or just trying not the think about the boy more than he was already. 

 

 

Up in his room, hours later, with his teeth cleaned and a freshly made cup of tea on his bedside table, Sherlock laid on his bed, fruitfully trying to sleep in the blasted heat. 

After hours of tossing and turning and all out thrashing, Sherlock yielded. He got up and grabbed his now-cold tea, sitting in the leather chair that not nine hours ago, one John Watson had sat. 

He spent the pre-dawn hours of the morning, re-reading his organic chemistry textbook, losing himself in allylic rearrangement and homolytic reactions. 

His heart thumping a little heavier at the thought of seeing John again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the French, I do try to give context clues in the conversation and with Sherlock always using the Latin term for everyday things, I just feel like that would be something teenage Sherlock would do.
> 
> Translations:  
>  _brachialias_ \- elbow muscle  
>  _cher_ \- dear  
>  _saleté_ \- dirt  
>  _est venu a la maison aujourd'hui_ \- came home today  
>  _changement_ \- change  
>  _Oh, c'était magnifique. N'est-ce pas, Henley_ \- Oh it was beautiful. Wasn't it, Henley?  
>  _en train de dormer_ \- sleeping together  
>  _personne_ \- no one  
>  _bicep brachii_ \- bicep muscle  
>  _deltoid_ \- shoulder muscle  
>  _cochlea_ \- part of your ear that vibrates so you hear sound  
>  _Je vous ai cherché monsieur, pendand des heures_ \- I've been looking for you, sir, for hours  
>  _pectoralis major_ \- breast bone/muscle


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations and whatnot at endnotes :) thanks for reading

**Chapter Two**

_Halton, England_  
Friday  
July 5th, 1996 

When Sherlock finally looked up from reading an experiment hypothesis involving particles and dried peas (and figuring out how he could convince Chef Catalina to give him said dried peas), he realised that the sun had risen long ago. 

He left his alcove, checking the time on his digital clock on his bedside dresser. The sharp red numbers flashed 07:47 and Sherlock was thankful for the early sunrises that came with the summer. 

He went about getting ready, putting more effort into his appearance than he normally would.

He wasn’t expecting to see John again; in fact, Sherlock believed their new four-hour-old friendship was just a fluke. Something for Sherlock to reminisce on for a few months and then forget altogether by the time he went off to university. 

Sherlock slowed himself, putting on his trousers from yesterday, wincing when the fabric drew sharply over his bandaged cut. 

No, Sherlock wouldn’t be seeing John Watson again. John had probably forgotten all about his strange encounter with the odd posh boy he found lurking in the woods. 

Although.

Sherlock should be prepared just in case John did turn up. It was highly improbable, Sherlock knew this of course, but still, he was a scientist, and every scientist knew to expect implausible outcomes. Always expect an unlikely result. It was a simple reason and reason was the base of science! 

So, Sherlock continued in his chore of getting ready, (and dear Lord, it was a chore. If Sherlock had it his way, he would spend his days lazing about in his lounge clothes.)

He forwent a shower, still clean from last night’s bath and not sleeping. He sprayed on more deodorant than strictly necessary. While he was clean, Sherlock was still a teenage boy and even he couldn’t prevent the stench of his ever-changing hormonal body. 

He dragged his long fingers through his dried curls, regretting that he was so obviously right the night previous, his dried curls frizzing higher than usual and making him look as if he were partying in the late 1960s. 

He grabbed the gel Mycroft gave him his birthday past and applied the smallest amount, just enough to tame his curls but not to be obvious. 

Twenty-four minutes and fifty-four seconds later, Sherlock was on his back terrace, facing towards the fenced-off area behind the woods that John had left from yesterday. He shuffled in his newly tied runners, feeling a tad bit ridiculous at his unease in his own back garden. 

He walked down the walkway, counting each tree as he went, taking comfort in his habit. 

He had made it to the exact (and Sherlock knew it was exact) location that he last saw John, preparing to wait for said boy, if he even showed up, when Sherlock was delightfully surprised. 

The older boy, who had been occupying Sherlock’s entire mind palace for the last nineteen hours, was already waiting for him. He had clearly been waiting for a bit, as his bike was resting on it’s stand and its owner was sitting contentedly against the chained fence that separated Sherlock from him. 

He didn’t hear Sherlock approach, his cheap, plastic headphones that covered his ears drowned out the sound of Sherlock’s heavy footsteps breaking sticks and crunching leaves. 

To Sherlock, each of his footsteps sounded like a landmine. 

Sherlock awkwardly stopped behind him, not touching John to grab his attention, hoping that the oblivious boy would sense Sherlock himself. 

He didn’t and Sherlock made the decision to poke the boy through the chain-linked fence with a stick he found. 

John startled when the broken twig crudely jabbed him in the shoulder and he leaped to his feet when he saw who disrupted him. 

“Sherlock!” John cried, pulling the headphones off his head and settling them around his neck. His hair stayed quaffed back and he looked at Sherlock with wide, happy eyes. 

“John,” Sherlock answered in a much more calm manner. John smiled openly at him and slid his hand through his already slick-back hair. 

They both stood awkwardly at each other, waiting for the other to speak. Sherlock picked at his nails and John playing with the jack of his headphones where they were plugged into his Walkman. 

Finally, and thankfully for both boys, Sherlock’s manners won out.

“Please, come over.” He gestured inelegantly at the fence that still unnecessarily separated them. 

John grinned and clumsily hopped over the fence as well as one could with such a dense body. 

They stood before each other again, unsure how to get back into their ease that they seemed to have yesterday. 

“Sorry that I was waiting like a complete stalker, but we never really settled on a time, so I thought that I might as well come a bit early.” 

 

Sherlock watched John hastily and self-consciously excuse himself with confusion. It was a perfectly sound reason that John should come early if they hadn’t settled on a time. Sherlock was just pleased that John actually turned up. 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock reassured, voice wooden, as if an actor, reading from a script for the first time. 

Sherlock was still a bit wary of his new friend. 

He had never been in such a whirlwind of emotion before. While he was pleased that John had come over again, he loathed what the simple act did to him. It wasn’t often that he felt happiness or anything more than the slight contentment from another human. 

John nodded and smiled. He gave his smiles so freely and kept no emotion hidden. It was a stark contrast to Sherlock’s rare and more reserved smile. 

“So,” John singsonged, his pitch raising an octave as his mother’s accent slipped through. “What are we doing today?” 

John watched Sherlock blink so fast it looked more like a twitch. 

“ _Abeilles_ ,” Sherlock said quickly as if something had just occurred to him.

Something _had_ occurred to the young genius.

He remembered that it was the first Friday of a new month and that meant that one of the volunteers from the HBS, Halton Bee-Keeper Society, would be coming to harvest the honey from the hives on the estate. Sherlock checked his watch, and they had two hours before the harvesting.

Unbeknown to Sherlock, something has occurred to his current company. John Watson watched in delight as the other boy spoke in French. And it wasn’t just his ‘ _a-bays_ ’ exclaim, no. Sherlock was muttering in French as he checked the time. 

Sherlock turned to John only to find the most peculiar and puzzling expression on his companions face. John’s mouth was pulled into a small smile and his eyes were wide, shining with something Sherlock couldn’t interpret. 

Sherlock didn’t like not knowing what John was thinking, as it was obviously about him. He narrowed his eyes, retreating into his most habitual defensive state. 

“So, something happening?” John asked, still smiling softly, his eyes still bright. 

“Yes, bees,” Sherlock confirmed, relaxing his face and shoulders. John’s eyes still shone with the unknown emotion but there was no distaste or aversion in his expression so Sherlock let it go, chalking it up to his lack of emotional comprehension. “This way.” 

Just like yesterday, John followed. It was obvious he would do quite well in the army, with his ability and ease at following direct orders. 

His shoulder brushed up against Sherlock’s and it felt like the time Sherlock had singed his fingertips on his Bunsen burner’s flame.

John was close enough that Sherlock could smell him. The scent of rose musk and dust hitting his _olfactory sensory neurons_ and Sherlock was thrown into a memory of his grandfather, Augustus Bernard Holmes and the memory of the whiskey-scented, lap-sitting lectures he used to receive before the old bastard passed away. 

There was also a hint of something antiseptic-ly pine-y. 

Sherlock took comfort in the chemical cleaning smell, reminded of the science labs at Harrow and his many hours spent there.

“How was your shift at the nursing home?” Sherlock didn’t care about the caretaking of people who have reached the end of their natural life, but it was polite and Nanny Beauharnais always said that the best way to make friends was to be nice to them. 

“Oh, you know,” John shrugged and no, Sherlock didn’t know. “Kinda’ boring, but some of the stories the residents tell are quite interesting. Like, there is this one man, a miserable old geezer, who tells the most fascinating story about his time in the Second World War and how he was in London when the bombs hit and how he—“ 

John continued with his retelling of what was probably a falsified or at least, greatly exaggerated story and Sherlock stopped listening. If he wanted to hear old war stories from unpleasant and cranky veterans, he would go with his father to the Veteran’s Brunch every second Tuesday in the mess hall, not a secondary source. 

He instead watched John talk, the boy as expressive with his retelling as he was with his emotions. He threw his hands about, trying to articulate something to Sherlock better and almost hit the smaller boy. 

Sherlock dodged, his reflexes quick with practice, and he took John’s hastily added apology, knowing the boy meant no foul. 

John continued on with his narrative. Sherlock starting listening after John’s almost assault, and was pleased to find that John was quite a compelling storyteller. 

His voice rose and lowered when the tale needed it and he put on a gruff voice, imitating the man whose story he was telling. His wording and grammar left something to be desired, but all in all, if the army and medicine didn’t work out, John could make a viable career as an author. 

They sat by the roses in the south garden, waiting and watching. Sherlock was watching a handful of bees fly in and out of their manmade hive, fascinated with the bumpy and odd flight patterns of the insects. 

John watched Sherlock, liking the way that the crinkles by Sherlock’s eyes made him look even younger. 

It was an interesting echo to the day before. 

“While they waited, John taught him to play Flinch, a game where one player had to slap the others hand. It was barbaric but Sherlock had fun and was happy to give blame to the tingle sensation in his hand to the slapping and not just from John’s touch. 

“So,” John said, twitching his hand, snorting as Sherlock ripped his away from the teased assault. “What are you doing next year?” 

Sherlock kept his focus on John’s hands, not allowing himself to be distracted. 

“Chemistry,” he answered. He moved his hands to slap John’s and missed, huffing an irritated breath. 

John made a small noise, slapping Sherlock’s hand. He stuck his tongue out when Sherlock greatly exaggerated his pout. 

“Are you gonna’ become a chemist or somethin’?” John asked, eyes on Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock took his chance and sprung but John’s hand moved swiftly while his eyes stayed on Sherlock’s. He huffed and answered John’s question.

“I don’t think so. I just find it fascinating.” 

He didn’t mind answering John’s questions about his future. It was different from his parent’s (and Mycroft’s) pestering, as John didn’t have any expectations. John wouldn’t be disappointed if Sherlock didn’t want to go into law or government work. 

“So, what do you want to do?” John asked with a particularly hard slap.

Sherlock pulled his hand to his chest, rubbing at the irritated skin, a mark stark red against the pale skin on the dorsal side of his hand. 

“Sorry,” John apologised.

He did that a lot, Sherlock thought. Apologising a lot was a sign of an emotion and/or mentally abusive household. Sherlock ran through the list of things Nanny Beauharnais drilled into him not to ask people and being abused was at number twelve, so Sherlock dropped the thought.

“Maybe we should play another game. What about Thumb Wars?”

Sherlock clasped his fingers together and squeezed, hard. The mere thought of practically holding hands with John made his throat dry. 

He squeezed his hands tighter, allowing the pain to stop the dryness gathering in his pharynx. 

He shook his head.

“It’s fine.” 

John nodded and they continued their game.

“So, future career? What is Sherlock Holmes going to be?” 

Sherlock studied his friend, looking for any trace, no matter how small, of a chance to be mocked. He didn’t see any, but still, his defenses were up. 

“I want to be a detective.” He waited for the laughs and insults to come but they didn’t. 

Confused, he looked up at John only to see the boy nodding to himself.

“I could see you being a copper. The way you read me yesterday, well, it was amazing.” 

Sherlock preened at the compliment but then frowned.

“I won’t be a _copper_ ,” he said bitterly. “The police are idiots.” 

John took his tone in stride. 

“So, private detective? You could be like _Poirot_!” 

Sherlock didn’t know who that was but made a mental note to follow up on it. 

“Sort of, I guess.” He rubbed his hands on his thighs. “I want to be someone that people come to when they need a specialist. Like, I’m the only one that could solve it.” 

The other boy nodded and scratched at the side of his face, leaving red lines. 

“Like a consult or something?”

Sherlock was pulled from his gaze at John’s jawline, just where the parotid lymph nodes would be. 

“A consulting detective,” he whispered to himself. “I’d be the only one.” 

“Yeah, it’s unique. Sorta’ like you.” John said, huffing a small laugh. 

Sherlock felt the burn of his cheeks and pulled his chin in, swallowing. He hummed, letting the indifferent answer speak for itself and hoping that John didn’t see him flushing.

John did, it was quite hard not too as Sherlock was almost unhealthily pale, but he thought it was endearing. Sherlock had blushed like this yesterday when John had complimented him and John found it amusing that Sherlock was so affected. 

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective,” John announced, deepening his voice to impersonate a broadcaster. “May the criminals of Britain tremble in their boots at your very name!”

Sherlock chortled. His laugh was deep and short and it harmonised perfectly with John’s light wheezes, their laughs at odd with their appearances. 

Twenty-three minutes and fifty-six slaps later, Sherlock and John were watching the treasurer of the HBS, Colin Ackley, suit up and prepare to harvest the honey. 

“Here,” Sherlock said, grabbing John’s almost painfully warm hand and pulled him downwind of the hives. They laid down and faced the bright blue sky. “This is the best.” 

There was a bang and the air around them was full of white smoke and smelt faintly on bananas. The roar of thousands of separate bees buzzing filled their ears as a large cloud of bees flew overhead. 

The buzzing was loud, and Sherlock watched a few stragglers fly behind.

He heard John gasp and Sherlock turned his head to watch John. One bee had landed on John’s almost-too-big-for-his-face nose. They both kept very still until the bee realised that John wasn’t a flower and flew away. 

“Bloody hell,” John whispered and Sherlock shared his sentiment. 

They listened to Mr. Ackley collect the honey and leave, allowing the bees to safely return to their home and Queen. 

John and Sherlock laid beside each other, listening to the sporadic sound of buzzing and enjoying the sun on their faces. 

Between them, Sherlock realised were their hands; still clasped. 

 

_Halton, England_  
Sunday  
July 7th, 1996 

It was 8:07 am and Sherlock was being ushered by his mother into the family’s car. He was wearing his Sunday best, the slightly too small leather brogues pinching his feet. 

He sat next to his mother while his father was in the front next to their driver Allen, his back against the cold leather of the seat and his mother fussing with his hair. 

Finding the task fruitless, she began fiddling with her wedding ring. His mother was always nervous when it came to Church, memories of her Roman Catholic upbringing in France haunting her. 

Sherlock stared out the window, blocking out his mother’s fidgeting and his father’s discussion about South Africa’s president’s upcoming visit, and how Mycroft knew everything about it – _unlikely_ -. 

As they pulled onto the main road, Sherlock entered his mind palace. 

After the bees on Friday, John and Sherlock had roamed the halls of the West Wing, giving names and creating stories for all the portraits on the wall. 

It started off simple, with John naming Sherlock’s late second-cousin Clifford Montgomery, Gerry and painting a tale of ‘Gerry’ and his maid. They carried on until Sherlock was describing ways they could have been murdered and John had christened Sherlock’s currently alive Great-Grandmother Ethel Holmes, Lottie creating a story about how ‘Lottie’ ran away from home to marry the stable boy, horse and all. Sherlock had laughed so hard his chest and mouth hurt. 

John had left the same time he had Thursday, returning to Halton Camp to do what he actually came to Buckinghamshire to do.

He had returned to Halton House the next day, a rugby ball tucked under one arm. Sherlock had made an offhand comment of not knowing the sport and John took it as a request to learn. 

Sherlock tried to learn, honestly, but contact sports weren’t his thing. He did appreciate the gesture as pointless as it was. 

John had actually only managed to convince him to “ _at least try, Sherlock_ ,” by stating that someday, someone might get murdered and the only way Sherlock would solve it was if he knew about rugby and how much his future self would regret turning down John’s expertise. 

So, Sherlock learnt about trys and penalties and whatnot. It was rather fun, but Sherlock chalked that up to seeing John’s face sweaty and red, his chest rising heavily with each harsh breath, his hair shaded darker with sweat. 

Although, even John’s sweaty, strong body could not make Sherlock enjoy being tackled. 

Contact sports weren’t his thing.

The car pulled onto the main road and Sherlock, wanting to escape the silence in the backseat, conjured up the last conversation he shared with his new friend.

_Sherlock had sat on the chain fence, watching John ready his bike._

_“What do you want to do tomorrow? Because I have some hydrogen peroxide just begging to--“ Sherlock cut himself off as he watched John’s face fall. “What’s wrong?”_

_“I have full-day shifts on Sundays,” John explained._

_“Oh,” Sherlock said. He didn’t look at John, hoping that John wasn’t blowing him off because he finally got sick of him._

_“But, I have most of Monday off. We can hang out all day!” John added brightly. “If you’re not tired of me by then!”_

_Sherlock chuckled, feeling relieved._

_He was glad that John wanted to see him again. It was still disconcerting to Sherlock every time he turned and saw John smiling at him._

_“I’ll see you Monday, yeah?” John’s eyebrows raised high and a questioning smile graced his face._

_Sherlock nodded and John’s grin widened._

_He lingered for a bit, smiling at Sherlock until he huffed a laugh and rubbed the back of his head._

_“Bye, mate.”_

_He started to walk his bike down the road backward, only turning around and hopping on when Sherlock returned his farewells._

_Sherlock watched from his perch as John biked away, smiling to himself when John turned around and waved. Sherlock waved back and snorted when John’s bike wobbled dangerously. John steadied himself and rode away, Sherlock watching him until he disappeared._

They made their final turn and were greeted by a small crowd, waiting to be let in. 

It was a cold morning and when Sherlock stepped out of the car he wrapped himself tighter in his coat, the light grey fabric of the collar itching his neck. 

The doors opened and they were ushered in, the Holmes’ taking up the front pew like it was their right. Sherlock sat between his mother and Nanny, who had come up earlier to set up the morning tea, his itching coat folded on his lap.

Pastor O’Reilly stepped up to the podium and was interrupted by the squeak of wet wheels on the wooden floors, the open-planned building echoing with the noise. 

“For Heaven’s sake boy, do be careful. I am old, you know.” 

The near full church turned in almost synchronicity, watching the elderly Mrs. Cockburn being pushed through the old archway by a familiar boy with blond hair. 

Sherlock and the rest of the parish watched John push the complaining woman next to the last row of pews and help her up and onto the bench. 

Supporting her by her frail elbow, John looked up to see a wave of unknown faces, only to spot grey eyes so recognizable. 

He smiled at Sherlock, amused to see the boy he had acquainted with unruly curly hair and dirty fingernails sitting so well groomed and sandwiched between a woman who was obviously his mother and another well-put-together woman. 

Sherlock smiled back, one eyebrow raised as he choked down a snort. He watched John help Mrs. Cockburn sit down, his biceps bulging. John sat down next to her silently and the rest of his audience turned to give Pastor O’Reilly their full attention. 

Sherlock was slow on the uptake, making eye contact with John and sharing a small smile until his mother forced his face forward with a firm grip at his jaw. 

He went without argument, not bothering to listen to the pastor’s words, focusing only on the memory John’s smile and the strange but not unpleasant churning feeling in his stomach.

 

When the sermon was over and Sherlock had distractedly deduced where Pastor O’Reilly had spent his Saturday night (at the local pub, losing more than he should at cards), he followed his parents out the church and stood behind them as members of Halton came up to them as if they were celebrities and asked them how their trip to Sussex was. 

He shuffled on his feet when he spotted John pushing Mrs. Cockburn down the pathway and past the gravestones, stopping her at the group of cane held-up pensioners. 

John stepped back and looked around. Sherlock, assuming John was looking for him, raised his hand slightly and waved. 

John’s eyes widen and he smiled coming over towards Sherlock and his parents. 

Sherlock tried to shake away the warm feeling in his stomach. It was senseless to feel flustered at John seeking him out. 

Sherlock started panicking, not wanting John to meet his parents, knowing that his parents will rip him to shreds. John was so obviously working class and he already heard his mother whisper something unkind to his father about John’s earlier interruption. 

Sherlock tapped on his father’s shoulder.

“Father, I’ll be right back. I’ll meet you at the tea.” His father waved him away with a disinterested hand, not listening or even caring. 

He stepped away and jerked his head towards the crumbling chimney hidden behind him. John nodded and followed. 

“What are you doing here?” John asked, which was a stupid question as it was fairly obvious what he was doing here. 

“Church, obviously,” Sherlock said. “Is Mrs. Cockburn one of your nursing home ladies?” 

“Yeah, right old cow. Do you know her?” 

“Of course. Her late husband was quite well known in Halton.” 

John bit his lip, looking a bit anxious.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you knew her. She’s not a cow, obviously. A bit rough, but she’s old, she’s allowed a little leeway.” 

Sherlock chuckled at John’s attempt to excuse himself and not offend Sherlock. 

“John, it’s okay,” he said, touching John as if was something he had always done. “Her husband was well known for being the town drunk.” 

John laughed, his shoulders relaxing. 

“I can see why he was a drunk. I’d drink if I was married to that.” 

“Yes. And apparently, she also had a tendency to steal,” Sherlock added. 

“And you’re all just polite to her?” John questioned. Sherlock shrugged and his arm fell off John. He missed the heat that travelled throughout his body whenever he touched John and pulled his coat tighter around him. 

“Well, like you said, she’s old.” Sherlock pulled his coat collar up to protect his neck from the cold. “Plus, everyone feels bad for her because her husband was found dead on the side of the road.” 

“Jesus,” John whispered, shutting his mouth tight as he looked around, probably wary of someone overhearing him and start chewing him out for saying the Lord’s name in vain. “How?”

“Just a heart attack. Boring.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, shame he wasn’t murdered.” John joked and Sherlock huffed a laugh.

“Would have livened up this tedious town.” 

John shrugged, giving off ‘ _what ya going to do_ ’ with just a simple movement of his shoulders. Sherlock was always amazed that John could give off entire sentiments with simple body language. 

A cold gust of wind blew around them and Sherlock shivered, his collar doing nothing to protect his cold neck from the attack. 

“Here,” John said, pulling the scarf from around his neck and tying it around Sherlock’s. He got a wave of John’s scent, which was mainly soap and antiseptic and a faint whiff of HP sauce. 

John’s warm hands lingered on Sherlock’s neck as he straightened the boy’s coat collar. His hands stroked down the borrowed scarf, pulling Sherlock subtly closer. They were close enough that Sherlock could see his reflection in the sclera of John’s eye.

Sherlock could hear his pulse thumping in his ears, the sound a steady bass line for the quiet crowd behind them and the heavy wind rustling the leaves above them. His heartbeat grew faster as he watched John’s tongue peek out to wet his bottom lip. 

“William!” Came a slightly accented voice. Sherlock jumped back, away from John, feeling his cheeks heat, even in the cool air. 

“Uhh—that’s me,” Sherlock explained, wrapping his coat around him like a shield. John brow crumpled, confused. “I should go.” 

He turned to walk away when John grabbed his forearm.

“Wait,” John said, turning Sherlock towards him slightly. Sherlock was struck by how their position mimicked the one they were in the day they met, only three days ago. 

The reminder of the short timespan of their friendship made Sherlock’s throat tight.

“Will you—“ He cleared his throat. “Will you be at the morning tea? Mrs. Cockburn is going and she needs her caddy.” John raised his eyebrows and squeezed Sherlock’s arm slightly. 

“Yeah,” Sherlock said quietly, feeling the question had a deeper meaning. “I’ll be there.” 

“Good,” John said as equally quiet. 

He looked at Sherlock and then nodded, loosening his hand, dragging it down Sherlock’s fabric-coated arm until he dragged his fingertips across Sherlock’s palm and fingers. 

Sherlock turned abruptly, wanting to hide his pink cheeks and marched his way to his awaiting parents, clenching his right hand into a tight fist and holding it to his chest, trying desperately to file away the feeling of John’s warm fingers on his skin. 

`Burning. Tingly. Soft, soft, soft.`

His mind was going haywire, something that rarely occurred and often resulted in days long migraines. 

But with the memory of John’s fingers and his scent wafting around Sherlock from his neck, the boy genius decided that he didn’t mind it at all.

The short ride to The Bell pub and gardens for morning tea was excruciating. Sherlock’s leg was jiggling, his stomach was in knots and his mother was looking at him with narrowed eyes, trying to figure something out. 

Their car pulled up in front of the gardens and Sherlock jumped out, trying, but failing, not to show his haste. 

The Bell was an old, two-storey brick structure, built in the late 1800s. It was well known by locals for Friday night pints and Sunday morning teas or by tourists as the only B&B in Halton that serves a free breakfast. 

Sherlock had spent a lot of time here when he was younger as Nanny Beauharnais had a flirtation going on with the manager of the lodgings and to this day the smell of bitter reminded him of sticky bars, coasters used at naughts and crosses play boards and having his hair ruffled by his Nanny’s beau, Ronald.

Sherlock followed his parents to the wooden gazebo behind the building, his hand caressing against the lavender that was potted next to the white pillars ornamented by _magnifica_. The flower was especially fragrant, yet the usual calming herb did not do its job for Sherlock’s churning stomach. 

“William,” his father called, already sitting down with a cup of tea in one hand, his wife speaking enthusiastically to another well-dressed woman. Sherlock went over, passing the white panelled windows and seeing his reflection, toying with John’s scarf. 

“Yes, Father?” 

“Stay by me and don’t go wandering off.” Sherlock grit his teeth and straighten his spine. He wouldn’t let his father ruin what seemed to be a good day.

Perhaps he spoke too soon when a small green van pulled up and out came Mrs. Cockburn wheeled by the expected John. Only it seemed that Sherlock wasn’t the only Holmes expecting the boy as when Lady Holmes caught sight on the elderly woman and her helper, she raised her hand and dainty called for attention.

“Mrs. Cockburn, please do join us.” 

Sherlock froze and watched John wheel the summoned woman over to the gazebo. Sherlock tried to make eye contact with John but the boy was focussing on navigating a wheelchair on uneven brickwork and patchy grass. 

“Lady Holmes,” Mrs. Cockburn said when she was parked next to Sherlock’s mother and Sherlock heard the verbal curtsy. 

“Mrs. Cockburn, how are you?” His mother asked, her voice dripping with insincerity, only obvious to those who knew her. “We do miss you here in Halton.”

Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration, listening to his father’s controlled breathing. His father could hear the falsehood of his wife’s words and although Lord Holmes did think himself above others, he would never belittle them or treat them ill. 

Sherlock opened his eyes to see his mother holding hands with the wheelchair-bound woman. 

Sherlock raised his gaze to find John already looking at him, eyes worried but soft. Sherlock timidly smiled back and was jerked back into the conversation by his mother’s voice. 

“You remember my son, William?” 

John raised an eyebrow and bit his tongue, amused, and mouthed ‘ _William_?” as Mrs. Cockburn hummed. 

“Yes, I remember him.” She said sharply, her eyes narrowed at Sherlock. “He was the one who lit my mailbox on fire just before my Tommy died.” 

There was a loud snort above Mrs. Cockburn’s head and Sherlock tucked his chin in to hide his smile. 

“And this is your grandson?” His father asked, joining the conversation and bringing attention to the snorting boy. Sherlock froze and searched his parent’s faces, searching for their real expressions hidden behind the blank, civil ones of polite society. 

“No, no,” Mrs. Cockburn waved away, sounding almost offended. “This is John, one of the summer volunteers.” 

The Lord and Lady hummed and Sherlock watched John’s hands tightened on the handles on the wheelchair. 

“Pleased to meet you, Jonathan. I’m Lord Henley Holmes and this is my wife Adalie.” 

Sherlock cringed. It wasn’t good for John if his father was introducing himself by his full title. 

“And this is my son William.” 

Sherlock and John shared a look. Sherlock wasn’t sure what the look conveyed but John stuck out his right hand –`his not dominant hand, probably was taught to use his right hand as it was more common and polite`\- and shook hands with his father and stumbled with his mother’s. 

“The pleasure is all mine, Lord Holmes, and it’s just John, no ‘athan’.” John’s joke fell flat to everyone but Sherlock, who reached up and covered his smile. 

John gave a small, awkward laugh and turned to Sherlock, offering his hand and Sherlock suddenly knew what John was doing. He was pretending that he didn’t know Sherlock, _for Sherlock’s sake_.

Ironically, this made Sherlock want his parents to actually get to know John. 

“Nice to meet you, Sherlock—“

“We already know each other.” Sherlock interrupted, gaining a gasp from the wheelchair-bound woman. His parents looked none surprised, and Sherlock wanted to smite their smug faces.

Sherlock risked a glance at John, who had moved his hand back to his side and looked very uncomfortable. 

“John and I met a couple of days ago. He’s been helping me with my experiments.” 

Not a complete lie. John had helped or tried too, but Sherlock had banned him from helping until explicitly asked after John had stepped on a cluster of much-needed toadstools. 

“I also taught him rugby,” John added. 

Sherlock wasn’t sure how John thought this was helpful.

“Rugby? Really?” Sherlock’s father asked, seemingly pleased. All right, apparently it was helpful. “How was he?” 

“Oh, dreadful.” John teased at Sherlock’s expense.

“Oh, I believe that.” His father joked back. 

Sherlock could hear the different tones and meanings in each man’s joke. 

While John was teasing Sherlock kindly, his father was openly mocking him. Sherlock realised that John could hear the different implications to as his face changed. It was subtle, but Sherlock had spent the last three days studying John’s face and the last two nights recalling. His normally kind blue eyes harden and his smile dimmed, a tendon in his jaw jumping as he clenched. 

“John, you must join us for Sunday roast,” his mother insisted. Sherlock choked on a whimper. John’s attention turned onto his mother, his smile less fictitious but still on the wary side. 

“I would love to, Lady Holmes,” John said, his mother preening at her title. “But unfortunately, I have a shift at the nursing home tonight.” 

“Yes he does,” Cockburn interrupted, patting John’s hand, her tune changing as she realised that the boy pushing her around fascinated the Holmes’. “But he’s free tomorrow night, aren’t you boy?” 

Sherlock dearly wanted to push Mrs. Cockburn down a hill and John looked ready to do the same.

“ _Parfait!_ John, you will join us for dinner tomorrow, around five o’clock. I’m sure you know where the house is.” His mother added, giving a small, pinched smile. 

He nodded stiffly, acquiesced and looked dreadfully relieved when Mrs. Cockburn asked to be wheeled over to the tea table. 

Sherlock was left with his parents, his fists clenched so tight that his nails were digging into his palm. 

‘William, you never told us you made a friend.” 

The world seemed too loud and too bright and Sherlock focussed on the pain his nails where causing. 

“Apologies, Father.” His father nodded to him, turning back to his wife. 

Sherlock looked up and made eye contact with John. 

John raised his eyebrows as if to ask if _Sherlock_ was okay. Sherlock was worried if John was okay. Not many people survived the Holmes’ if they didn’t want you too or even if they did, often people were left gaslighted. 

Sherlock nodded towards The Bell and excused himself from his father, walking into the pub, smelling lager and cooking bacon. 

Sherlock checked to see if John was following him and led them to the bathroom.

Once inside the bathroom, with its one toilet and basin, Sherlock turned to John.

“I deeply apologise for that.” 

John shrugged, leaning on the sink. 

“I kind of figured your parents would be posh, what with your living situation.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I just never thought they would be so-“

“Condescending?” 

John huffed a laugh.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Sherlock smiled and then stepped forward, biting his lip. 

“You don’t have to come to dinner tomorrow if you don’t want to.” 

John tilted his head.

“Do you not want me too?” 

Sherlock blew out a sharp breath.

“It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m just saying if you don’t want to go, understandably, then you don’t have too.” 

John took a step forward, looking into Sherlock’s eyes, trying to read him.

“You didn’t answer my question. Do you not want me to go?” 

Sherlock shut his eyes and pulled at his hair follicles; frustrated with the way the conversation was going. It was as if John were being deliberately dense. He took a deep breath.

“If you don’t want to go—“ he said through his teeth, hating to repeat himself and aggravated that he wasn’t getting his point across. John didn’t understand. It was about what _John_ wanted, not Sherlock. “Then don’t go.” 

He let out a growl, pulling harder at his roots, causing his eyes to well up. 

“Hey, hey,” John said softly, taking Sherlock's wrists and pulling his hands from his hair. He rubbed the tendons in Sherlock’s wrist soothingly. “I would love to have dinner at your house. I just wasn’t sure you wanted me to meet your parents.” 

“I didn’t want you to meet them.” 

John sighed.

“No,” Sherlock growled. His hands started shaking and John kept rubbing them with his thumbs, the gesture a comfort to the frustrated boy. “I don’t want you to meet them.”

“Oh.”

“They’re not nice people, John. Not to those they think are ‘lower than them.’” John could hear the quotation marks. 

“I’m tough,” the boy joked.

Sherlock laughed, lowering his hands and feeling John’s rise up to settle at his elbows. 

“I don’t doubt it.”

“You better not,” John laughed, shaking Sherlock slightly. Sherlock laughed back, feeling vaguely at ease. Everything still felt too loud. He could still hear the chattering of the people outside and the clinking of teaspoons on teacups and it sounded like drums too Sherlock’s sensitive ears but John’s soft voice, soft laugh, and dry hands gave Sherlock something to focus on. 

Sherlock realised how close they were standing when he could feel John’s breath on his left ear. 

Sherlock looked up, hating the age-cause height difference. He stared at John’s eyes; not liking the way the dismal florescent light dulled the normally vibrant colour. His gaze flickered to John’s mouth and was fascinated with a small piece of skin flaking on his bottom lip. 

John pushed Sherlock gently back, smiling warmly at him. 

“Come on, I’d better go make sure Mrs. Cockburn hasn’t pushed herself down a hill, although she would be doing us all a favour.” 

John squeezed his arms and let him go, smiling as he left Sherlock in the bathroom.

“Oh, by the way,” John said, peaking his head through the doorframe. “You’re gonna’ explain the ‘William’ thing to me too.” He smiled cheekily and left.

Sherlock slid down the wall, his knees up against his chest as he tried to make sense of what just happened.

Sherlock was a tyro when it came to people and relationships, platonic or not, and while John’s push away didn’t seem like a rejection, it sure felt like one. 

But a rejection from what, a kiss? Sherlock had never kissed someone before, never had desired too, but the mere thought of John’s smiling lips pressing against anywhere on Sherlock’s person was enough to make his heart drop and he didn’t mind it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Abeilles_ \- Bees  
>  _olfactory sensory neurons_ \- how you smell  
>  _magnifica_ \- a pretty pink flower  
>  _parfait_ \- French for perfect


	4. Chapter Three

_Halton, England_  
Monday  
July 8th 1996 

Sherlock had spent the night pacing, more than likely working a groove into his ancient floorboards but he didn’t care. 

It was 08:34am and Sherlock had been dressed for hours, desperately trying to distract himself from the upcoming disaster. 

He had tried sleeping, reading and checking on his growth experiments down in the lower wine-cellar, drinking endless cups of tea and even debated locking John and himself into the lock-in freezer just before dinner but nothing worked, so Sherlock dressed early and let himself pace and dread the worst. 

Too much was happening and it was too much for Sherlock’s brain. The risks and aftermaths of tonight were messing with his head. All the problems that could occur, like his parents finding out how he felt about John, when Sherlock himself was still trying to figure that out, or even worse, his parents making John feel bad and John hating them and John hating him and leaving and never coming back and Sherlock would never find out if he and John could ever…

Sherlock was hyperventilating. 

He focussed, tugging at his hair and reciting the periodic table in his head. 

The only saving grace was that Mycroft had gone home on Saturday. 

Sherlock watched his clock switch over from 08:59 to 09:00 from the other side of his room. 

He sighed. He had given himself until nine to pull himself together and then go meet John by their usual spot. Sherlock wanted, no, _needed_ this to be an as normal day as possible.

John was waiting by their fence, shifting from foot to foot, his customary backpack bludging more than usual. 

His blond hair was a mess, obviously retreating to his calming habit of running his hands through the short strands, as the air was still. 

Sherlock approached him, noticing John’s clicking fingers and tongue. He cleared his throat and John turned, as relieved and pleased expression on his open face. 

He climbed over, carefree and Sherlock was pleased. Despite John’s obvious unease towards the upcoming dinner, he was still comfortable enough with Sherlock that he needn’t ask anymore to climb the fence and pass the metaphorical barrier. 

“Hey,” John greeted, with a small smile that did calm Sherlock overbearing nerves.

“Hi,” he replied. He nodded to the other boy’s bag and asked a silent question. 

“Oh,” John said, understanding the unasked inquiry, cheeks pinking. He slid his bag off and zipped it open. 

Sherlock took notice of John’s sister’s branding and the overflowing pile of crumpled-up once-folded clothing threatening to spill out the opened bag. 

“I bought clothes for dinner,” he explained, trying to shove a pair of grey-beige woollen trousers back in, “but I thought that no matter what I wore, something would be wrong with it, so I brought a couple of options and you can pick for me.” 

This was sound reasoning, Sherlock knew, but still, he got that strange heavy sensation behind his heart and an odd wanting to wrap his arms around John, but that may be a bit too much for one day. 

John wanted his opinion. John _trusted_ his opinion. 

Also, John Watson cared so much about what Sherlock’s parent’s thought of him that he put a lot of thought and effort into tonight. That was friends did and cared about, wasn’t it? 

“Good,” Sherlock nodded, giving John approval and the boy preened, his smile widening and Sherlock’s hands shook minutely and he had to scratch a nail across his left index knuckle to distract himself. 

“I’ll look later. First, we have to go to Main Road to buy more supplies. I have a sneaky superstition that Nanny B is taking my matches and lighters. Then,” Sherlock said, rubbing his hands together in a way that made his fifth form Chemistry professor at Harrow shudder and pale. “We’re going to the most potent fertilizer in our greenhouse. I have a theory and about four rats.” 

Sherlock took great delight in seeing John’s face shade a faint green. 

Overall, a half an hour walk to and from the main strip of shops in the sweltering summer heat and then including John in his fertiliser (both chemical and organic, as John so helpfully suggested) experiment just before a dinner with his parents, was not one of his best thought out and executed ideas. 

After a long walk into town, with the roads to hot the asphalt heated the soles of their shoes to an uncomfortable temperature and then enduring the smouldering heat in the small, stuffy greenhouse which essential baked the two boys and left them red-cheeked and dripping in sweat. 

Sherlock probably looked a mess, his curls frizzy and everywhere; sweat staining his thin and white button up. On the other hand, Sherlock guiltily thought it was a good look on John, red and heaving, his blond hair drenched two shades darker, the sight so much enjoyable that it was almost worth the smell of manure and blood and bone. 

He looked down at his hands, frowning at the dirt imbedded deep into the lines of his skin and under his nail beds. John didn’t fair out much better, as the other boy had somehow ended up with a faint soil handprint on his left cheek and temple and his dark-blond wet hair was caked with dirt from his own filthy hands. 

Deeming their day over and successful at that, Sherlock and John left their makeshift sauna and entered the, now, reasonably less hot afternoon. 

They looked each other up and down and broke out in giggles.

A giggly, sweaty, _dirty_ , John was certainly a sight to behold. Sherlock almost wished he had his Polaroid camera John was so fond of to permanently capture the sight. 

John, seemingly reading his mind and once more proving his love of ‘capturing the moment’, gingerly pulled out a yellow deposable camera out of his yellow and green school rugby jacket and Sherlock watched him wind it up, resigned. 

“Come on, then,” John said, a mischievous smile on his face. 

He put his arm around Sherlock and pulled him close, Sherlock’s smaller and younger frame curving to fit under the nook for John’s armpit. John smelt like sweat and the dustiness of earth and Sherlock discovered that he didn’t mind it. John pulled him closer and Sherlock’s clothed knee brushed up against John’s and Sherlock could feel the heat of John’s body all the way up to his third true rib.

He licked his lips in a rare nervous gesture, tasting the salty sweat and the grit of dirt on his upper lip. He could feel a single grain of sand between his teeth and crunched it between his left first premolars. 

“Smile,” John commanded and Sherlock did as he was told. 

John’s left hand was curled awkwardly around the small plastic rectangular prism. He clicked the capture button and Sherlock blinked at the harsh flash that followed

“Sweet,” John said, lowering his camera-wielding arm. He moved his right arm from around Sherlock slowly, dragging his hand across Sherlock’s shoulder blades in seemingly absentminded move. 

His hand hovered on Sherlock’s lower back, his fingertips just touching the thin material of Sherlock’s shirt and Sherlock felt his mind fizzle and he’s knees and thighs trembled like a maiden in a senseless romance novel. 

He moved his hand to fiddle with the camera and Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It was like his body was subconsciously avoiding John’s touch, which the boy genius didn’t understand. As much as John’s touched burned, it was a good burn, feeling tingly and safe.

Sherlock felt stupid for finding the touch of another’s flesh safe. He needed a neurosurgeon and quickly.

If this is how other teenagers felt when infatuated, if that was what Sherlock even was, then no wonder all the other teenagers Sherlock had met where complete idiots. 

Still, despite the complete idiocy and the confusion that John brought out in him, Sherlock still found himself enjoying and, dare he say it, craving John’s touch. 

“I can’t wait to develop these,” John said, taping at the latch that hid away the roll of film. “There’s gotta’ be some brill’ ones of you.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John had taken a likening to photographing Sherlock and himself at sporadic ‘apparently-this-needs-to-be-permanently-recorded’ moments. Sherlock had humoured him, it was harmless and John never disrupted Sherlock if he was busy. Besides, Sherlock took some of John too, because friends had photographs of their friends, right?

Sherlock was a tiny bit embarrassed that the photo of John from the first day had, somehow, migrated its way tacked to the upper right post of his bed. 

Sherlock would lie to himself and say he only put it there because of societal expectations of friendship, but that would be pointless. Sherlock would never lie to himself as he found it useless and a waste of time. 

So, Sherlock was, embarrassingly, honest with himself. He didn’t know exactly what he felt for John, whether it was friendship or more, nor did he know what possessed him to hang the photograph on his bed frame, but he knew that on nights that he slept, or just rested in bed, he smiled at the grainy square image of his new friend.

John Watson had successfully thrown Sherlock Holmes’ whole world off its axis.

_It had only been four days._

That thought kept reoccurring in Sherlock’s mind, the block white letters flashing before his eyes every time Sherlock’s stomach dropped at the sight of John smiling at him, with him, eyes twinkling. Or each time Sherlock felt irrational fire run up his veins when touched him or tingles in his fingertips if he touched John back. 

The maddened reminder always fizzled out when John’s soft laugh filled his ears and Sherlock stopped being able to hear or see anything when he felt John’s hot breath near him, the small puff of carbon dioxide making him feel lightheaded as if the small gust of air from John’s lungs completely filled Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock never believed in soul mates, they were illogical and put too much unnecessary pressure on people to find ‘the one’, or even destiny, but knew that sometimes people just clicked, fitting together like two puzzle pieces or going together like thymine and adenine or guanine and cytosine. 

“I highly doubt that,” Sherlock said with a haughtily air, making a swipe for the camera. John, excellent reflexes and superb hand-eye coordination showing, swiftly moved out of the way with a spin on his heels and a smug grin on his face. 

“Oi, don’t be a twat!” John said. 

Sherlock stuck his tongue out in a childish retort and John copied, grimacing when his tastebuds came into contact with the soil on his chin. 

Sherlock snorted at his friend’s expression. 

They spent their last remaining hours until dinner, searching for another cluster of _sparassis crispa_ , the same species of mushroom that John’s foot had crushed the week last but their search was futile. 

“Come on, you can wash up inside.”

Sherlock remembered how uncertain John was about entering his house on the first day, but now, John all but glued himself to the quad floor.

Uh,” John said ineloquently. He made a few noises, thinking for a moment. He toed his shoes off and banged them together, trying to remove some of the access dirt. Sherlock was fascinated with John’s toes, wiggling around in their light blue cotton confinement.  
John brushed himself off, following suit of Sherlock, who was already dreading Nanny Beauharnais wrath. 

They left their shoes by the backdoor umbrella stand, just to be safe, and went upstairs to their usual West Wing destination, John comfortably familiar by Sherlock’s side. 

 

John sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor in front of Sherlock’s bed, awaiting instruction. 

“Right,” Sherlock said, locating John’s bag and rifling through it. It felt like they were past the point of polite asking. 

Inside were three button-down shirts, one dark blue, one hideous dirty brown-green colour and one that looked to be John’s school uniform.

“Sorry,” John apologised for the forty-ninth time Sherlock had known him. “I know that none of them aren’t really ‘posh-Oxford-I’m-related-to-the-Queen’ fancy.”

While Sherlock resented the comment about the ‘relation of the Queen,” and swallowed down a correction about how they actually weren’t related to the monarch and that is father was just in the House of Lords, he did agree with John. All of his clothes were too casual, and not even in a luncheon fashion. 

“It’s alright. I’d suggest you’d wear something of mine,” Sherlock said, his mind conjuring up an image of John in his Harrow winter blazer. He shook the image away in case he might like the idea a bit too much. “But, I am a bit smaller than you.” Internally, Sherlock wanted to puff himself up but he didn’t dare actually do it. “You can borrow something that Mycroft hasn’t worn.” 

Sherlock rummaged through the trousers that John brought with him when John interrupted.

“Your croft?”

He paused in his search, one hand holding a pair of _Primark_ trousers. Why was John asking about Sherlock’s croft? Sherlock didn’t have any fenced off land. 

“Pardon?” 

“You said I could borrow something of your crofts.”

Suddenly, Sherlock understood, torn between hating himself for being so slow and giggling at John. 

“No, no.” Sherlock got out, choosing giggling. “ _Mycroft_. He’s my nudnik brother. ”

John flushed and snorted and Sherlock liked that John could laugh at himself. He was vastly different from the boys Sherlock went to Harrow with. 

He picked up what he assumed to be John’s school trousers, confused as to why the boy was carrying around his school uniform with him during summer break. 

 

They seemed too big to fit the healthy but lean boy in front of him, but they were the best slacks he had so they would do. All that was left was shoes.

“Wear these,” Sherlock said, throwing said trousers at John. “I’ll get you a shirt and deal with your shoes when you’re showering.” 

Sherlock paused. Were you supposed to ask if someone wanted to bathe? It seemed like a given, considering the evidence; John scratching at a dried patch of dirt on his forearm, his apparent desire to please Sherlock’s parents (dirt would be a big no) and, overall, no one enjoyed being dirty when they had the chance to be clean, (subjective, as Sherlock didn’t mind, but others might). 

Perhaps it was odd to shower in someone else’s house because some might feel exposed and vulnerable when wet and naked in an unknown environment. 

Turns out, Sherlock needn’t have worried as John, oblivious to Sherlock’s inner turmoil, simply stood up and stared at Sherlock.

Sensing, or rather noticing the raised eyebrows, wide eyes and questioning tilt of his head, Sherlock answered John’s silent question and grabbed him by the wrist and led him across the hall and into the bathroom. 

He made sure to grab John’s wrist and not hand, as he wasn’t sure he could handle the flare of heat from John’s hand knowing that he was about to shower, in Sherlock’s shower, _naked_. His brain was doing that fizzy thing again. 

“Shower, bath,” Sherlock explained, pointing to each one. The bathroom floor was chilly but Sherlock’s face was practically on fire. “You can use the soap, shampoo, conditioner, anything. I’ll be back with towels and a change of clothes.” 

“Cheers, mate.” John said, unbuttoning the three buttons of his polo shirt and Sherlock virtually ran out the bathroom lest he embarrass himself. 

Sherlock dawdled to find a wayward maid, and decided to find John a shirt first and hopefully he’ll bump into one on his way there. Mycroft’s old room was in the South Wing, where the main library was, so it was more than likely that a maid would be up there.

Sherlock walked across the foyer to the South Wing, his hand tracing along the embroidery that decorated the wall, his fingers tracking each swirl and divert. 

When Sherlock was younger and Mycroft was still at home, they used to lie on the floor in parlour, staring up at the ceiling and pointing out different shapes and objects hidden in the pattern on the roof. 

Mycroft often made up games to entertain Sherlock, inventing trivial scavenger hunts with codes and puzzles and when Sherlock solved it, which he always did, Mycroft would reward him (and himself) to a pint of honeycomb ice cream straight from the tub on the kitchen floor. 

Sherlock can remember one spring night, them both on the kitchen floor, hidden near the walk-in pantry, the sticky residue of his winnings smeared around his mouth and his toes tucked under his big brother’s thigh. 

_“William,” his brother had said, breaking the peaceful atmosphere._

_“Non, non, Sherlock!” He corrected. Some people often had trouble understanding him, having Nanny Beauharnais teaching him to speak, his accent coming out more French then English._

_“Sherlock,” Mycroft corrected himself, an exasperated but fond smile on his face. “I’ve been accepted for early admission to Cambridge. I’m starting this September.”_

_Sherlock’s face fell as his intelligent yet still ten-year-old brain processed this._

_“But-but, that’s heures away!” Sherlock cried, spitting in his haste to get his complaint out, mixing both French and English in his haste._

_Mycroft fought the urge to roll his eyes. No matter how fondly he did it, Sherlock always took offense._

_“It’s only an hour and a half drive.” He put his arm around the younger boy and pulled him close, Sherlock’s dark curls tucking neatly under his big brother’s chin._

_“Promise you’ll come back.”_

_Mycroft scoffed._

_“I’m going to university, not prison.” His attempt at a joke was unsuccessful as his brother tightened his grip._

_“ Promet moi. Promise me.” Sherlock begged._

_Mycroft softened, hearing his little brother’s words in both languages, begging for him to come back. He gripped Sherlock tighter, allowing the boy to practically sit on his lap._

_“I promise, dear brother”_

_Sherlock nuzzled in, pressing his face into Mycroft’s neck, calming himself with his brother’s familiar scent and the steady beat of his pulse. Mycroft was the only one, apart from Nanny Beauharnais, whom Sherlock could stand the touch of. Everyone else’s touch, even Mummy and Father’s, caused his skin to itch and he scratched at himself until he bled._

_Mycroft knew this and held his baby brother tighter, feeling honoured that his brother trusted him so much and shattered about how he couldn’t shield Sherlock from their parent’s forceful expectations anymore._

_“I promise,” Mycroft repeated, not knowing which one of them he was really comforting._

_Mycroft did come back, but he wasn’t the same. Sherlock knew that university changed people, they matured and experienced things and grew up but Sherlock thought that Mycroft was already grown up._

_Perhaps it was ignorance, Sherlock growing up believing his big brother omnipotent and oh so mature. Mycroft had been so accepting of the responsibilities and pressures forced upon him by their parents that Sherlock hadn’t realise that Mycroft was still a child himself._

_Mycroft did desire to become Lord of this manor when his father passed and was more than happy to go university early; he was much like Sherlock, the small country town of Halton not big enough or simulating enough for their brilliant minds and Mycroft was happy with his plan to go into government, preparing to become the government, and was glad to serve Queen and Country, but none of that rationalized the shift in Mycroft’s behaviour._

_While they weren’t always the most affectionate of brothers (their similar temperaments and brilliance often causing rifts and mutinies between them), nor where they ever going to sing Kumbaya My Lord around a campfire, but still, the warmness and fondness they shared with each other shifted drastically to a memory of the past, the day Mycroft arrived back home for the first time, Sherlock excited to see his big brother and show him how good he got at speaking English without a linger French accent when he stopped._

_His big brother was dressed sharply, a curved umbrella handle tightly clenched in his right hand, his auburn hair darkened and slicked back with too much gel._

_Sherlock was willing to ignore his brother’s too-posh sense of style, but the first word’s that came from his brother’s mouth where so flat and uncaring that Sherlock sunk into himself and entered mind palace and didn’t leave until he was sure Mycroft was happily back in his dorm at Cambridge._

_“Hello, William.”_

Sherlock pushed himself through the heavy mahogany door of Mycroft’s room, inhaling the scent of stale air. 

The bed was striped, and everything but the bare essentials were left in the too big room that Sherlock had once spent most nights. 

The opened the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, sorting from the spare and unused shirts, searching for one that would fit John. 

It was a struggle, with Mycroft’s shirts being tailored to fit him, especially with his narrow shoulders but wider lower torso. He found one that would be tight on John’s shoulders and loose around his stomach, but Sherlock could fix that. 

There was still a problem with shoes, John’s feet being smaller than Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s.

Sherlock left Mycroft’s old room, not wanting to spend anymore-unnecessary time there, too many memories and Sherlock was already too busy trying to deal with getting John out of this dinner with his parents alive and with his dignity still intact. 

Sherlock held onto the dove-grey shirt, shoving it behind his back when a maid came towards him. 

“Excuse me?” 

She turned towards him with a blank stare and looked him up and down assessing him and Sherlock did the same. She was easy to read; mid to late thirties, married contently, no children, just started her shift and was relatively new to the job. She was also regarding him with disapproval.

“Sir,” she nodded, her voice accented with a slight Welsh lilt. She had obviously only heard stories about Sherlock from the other staff on the estate. 

With the exception of Nanny Beauharnais, who had raised Sherlock from infancy and Chef Catalina, who was reminded of her own son that she left behind in Morelia whenever she saw Sherlock’s dark and unruly curls, none of the other staff liked Sherlock. It was nothing personal, it was just Sherlock and his tendencies to be where he shouldn’t (laundry rooms, the butler’s pantry and the lower-south wine cellar with his mould experiments) and the staff’s own issues with staying out of Sherlock’s space. 

He and the Halton House employees had reached an undeclared truce. Sherlock would stay away from the places he shouldn’t be (or at least, be subtle about it) and the staff would stay away from his space and his stuff. 

“Do you know where some towels are? I wish to bathe for dinner.”

“Of course, sir.” The Welsh maid said, bowing and scattering away. He rolled his eyes behind her back, hating when they bowed. 

He quickly ran down to the back door, picking up John’s trainers. He’d have to clean them first, but they were nice enough to wear to dinner, sort of.

He met the maid halfway upstairs to his room, giving quick thanks and then speed walked his way to the bathroom. 

He knocked, and John’s muffled reply came through.

“Come in!”

Sherlock slowly and carefully opened the door, a wave of steamed hitting his face. 

“I got you towels and your clothes,” Sherlock said, putting the folded items of the vanity, thankful for the steam for fogging up the mirror and Sherlock not seeing the reflection of John’s anything.

“Thanks, mate.”

 

 

Sherlock was lying on his bed with his feet hanging off, trying to recall the location of the tripod for his Bunsen burner when John entered.

Sherlock was quite certain that his pharynx had just close up. 

John had walked in, his hair darker and wet, spiked up and off his fresh and pink face. He was wearing his black slacks and his feet were bare but what made Sherlock literally breathless was the sight of John with the dove-grey button-up open, his firm tan chest on display. 

He watched a drop of water drip from the hair behind John’s ear down to his sternum, following its movement with the utmost attention. 

“Should I be wearing an undershirt or something?” John asked, somehow oblivious to Sherlock’s blatant staring. 

“Uh,” Sherlock said, ineloquently, shaking his head clear. “Should be right.” 

John nodded and thankfully and disappointedly buttoned himself up, hiding away his firm chest. Sherlock gripped at his bed sheets to get himself together.

“Okay, my turn.” Sherlock said, unnecessarily. He grabbed his clothing and the spare towel and hightailed it to the bathroom, needing to escape his room and John, John, John!

He scrubbed at himself, causing his skin to redden and welts to appear where he had dug in to hard with his nails. He had to focus for John, but he couldn’t because of, ironically, John. 

Sherlock was used to feeling unease around people but this was a new thing. Whether it was unknown land of friendship or an uncertainty of a romantic attachment, Sherlock needed to figure out all of these emotions and deal with them quick.

He finished, leaving his hair dry, and dressed; bracing himself for whatever state John might be in in the next room. 

Sherlock was relieved to see John fully clothed and covered, fiddling with his Walkman and Sherlock’s own stereo system. He hardly used it and Sherlock was surprised that John had actually found it where it was buried under books, stray pieces of paper and a dying potted cactaceae.

Sherlock walked up behind John, tucking in his dark maroon shirt into in his trousers and buttoning his cuffs. He cleared his throat and John started, looking up with a playful accusing expression on his face. 

“Mate-“ John started and stopped.

John was looking up at Sherlock with a look that Sherlock didn’t recognize. 

John’s eye widened as he looked up and down at Sherlock and Sherlock stared back down at him warily. 

He rubbed his palm across his clavicle where John’s gaze was stuck, feeling the burn of the scrutiny. He looked down at the spot, checking to make sure he didn’t have a stain. 

His shirt was clean and he looked back at John quizzically, only to see the boy swallow and turn back towards the stereo system. 

John rubbed the back of his neck and Sherlock noticed the pinkness there that wasn’t before. 

Sherlock blinked. Maybe John was still flushed from his shower. 

Sherlock ignored it and sat down next to him, shoulders brushing. John sat up straighter and turned to him, eyes pinched, a small smile quirking up his mouth.

“This set-up is fantastic,” John said, dreamily, stroking over the heap of metal and plastic Sherlock found to be a waste of space. “Seriously, it’s like, top of the line.” 

“Use it then,” Sherlock said, shrugging. John turned, eyes wide and gaping. 

“Seriously?” John said, a disbelieving but happy smile gracing his face. Sherlock was taking aback by the force of the emotion and realised that John was so close that he could see a small, raised pimple forming between John’s eyes.

Sherlock looked away, his chest tight from John’s expression. 

“Go ahead,” he shrugged, feigning indifference, standing up and walking towards his wardrobe. 

Unlike Sherlock’s room, his closet and drawers were meticulously organised. His shirts were hung up and colour coded, his trousers folded from everyday, casual wear to proper, fancy wear. His socks were indexed and his accessories where organised from his favourites to his least and then colour ordered. 

He pulled out a new pair of black socks for both John and himself and picked a black silk tie for him and a cream silk tie for John. 

While he was occupied, John had put a tape in and a techno beat from the 80’s filled his room. He listened absentmindedly to the male vocalist singing about meeting a waitress in a cocktail bar. 

“John,” Sherlock called, turning with both ties in his hands. He came face to face with a much closer than excepted John. “Uh,” he said, gathering his bearings. “Here,” he pushed the cream tie at John. 

He stepped around John, tying the tie around his neck with practised ease. He turned back to John as he was slipping the neck of the tie under his collar. 

His friend had attempted some sort of knot and was pulling it tighter, making more of a mess. John looked at him, a self-depreciating smile on his face. 

“Sorry,” John apologised for the _forty-eighth time_ and held his hands up in defeat. “Dunno how.”

Sherlock stepped forward and grabbed at the silk fabric around John’s neck, bringing him closer to the other boy. Sherlock noticed it as a close parallel to the position they were in on Sunday when John gave Sherlock his scarf. 

He tied a Balthus knot, tugging at the bigger loop, straightening it, one ear listening to John softly singing along to their background music.

“-you’ve changed your mind. You’d better change it back or we’ll both be sorry. Don’t you want me, baby? Don’t you want me, ohh?” 

Sherlock looked up at John, his heart beating faster and his cheeks heating. He noticed the taller and older boy’s cheeks were pink as well and John let out a gush of carbon dioxide and that Sherlock felt on his nose and upper lip. 

They didn’t break eye contact and Sherlock’s hands tightened on the tail of the cream silk. John took a small step forward; Sherlock’s curls brushing up against his brow. 

In the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John’s shoulder move, his gaze fully focused on the blue in front of him. He felt a hand softly touch the fabric at his waist.

Sherlock’s mind was worryingly silent. 

_“William, pourquoi y a-t-il des rats mort- oh!”_

Sherlock jumped back, his heart in his throat, surprised by the interruption of his nanny. He felt his cheeks heat and could hear his heartbeat loudly in his ears and he didn’t dare look at John. 

_“Pardonnez-moi, William,”_ his nanny apologised, 

She hovered awkwardly in the doorway, awaiting instruction. 

_“Nounou Beauharnais, rencontre Jean,_ ” Sherlock introduced with a shaky breath, his hand limply gesturing towards the other boy. “John, meet Nanny Beauharnais.” 

John stepped forward and shook her hand, doing a valiant effort not to look mortified. 

“ _Bonjour, madame_ ,” John said, trying but completely butchering his pronunciation.

“ _Bonsoir, Jean_ ,” Sherlock’s nanny replied, an odd, questioning look on her face. “You must be our dinner guest.”

John looked relieved to hear the Queen’s English and nodded. 

“Yes, that’s me.” 

“ _Bon à savoir._ ” She looked from Sherlock to John, looking the unfamiliar boy up and down before giving John an unamused look, eyebrow raised. 

John gave an awkward cough and shuffled, pulling at his shirt and straightening his tie. 

“Alright,” she said, giving them both an unamused but ‘this-is-not-my-problem’ look. “It was nice to meet you _Jean_. William, _pas de rats dans la maison_.” 

John and Sherlock shared a look, John obviously catching the word ‘rat’ in the mix.

“Yep.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Nanny B corrected. 

Sherlock swallowed.

“Yes.” 

His nanny looked between them once again before leaving. Sherlock watched her go, his stomach anxious to explain or at least justify what she just saw. 

“ _Une minute_ ,” he said to John, not waiting to hear an answer and following the woman out the door.

He ran up to her retreating figure and stepped in front of her, effectually trapping the  
Frenchwoman. 

“ _Nounou Beauharnais, ce que tu as vu-_ “ Sherlock stopped, not able to explain what he didn’t even know himself.

She looked down at him.

“You are-“ she struggled to find the English translation. “Gey?” She looked confused at her own translation. 

“ _Ju suis…homosexuel_.” 

There was a silence in the hall and he could hear the faint sound of the song changing in his room and the ticking of the grandfather clock at the end of the hall.

Sherlock wanted to sink into the floorboards.

He worried about what she would say. Not because he cared for her opinion, just, what if she told his mother?

“William,” his nanny said, placing a hand on his shoulder in a rare show of affection. ‘It does not matter who you love, but be careful. Boys, especially boys from his class, can…” she racked her head for her words. “Take advantages.”

Sherlock throat threatened to close. 

She must have noticed as she ran one hand through his curls, a phantom memory of what she used to do to calm him down when he was a child. 

“I will not tell your parents.” 

They shared an understanding look and she left, patting him once on head again before making her way down the hall, wiping at the dust that settled on the pictures frames as she went. 

Sherlock watched her go, his heart slowing sliding back to its usual space behind his ribs. 

It wasn’t until she was gone that he remembered that he left John alone in his room.

Bugger.

 

 

John was sitting with his knees against his chest on Sherlock’s leather chair in his alcove, listening to someone singing about their sweet child. He was biting at the skin by his nails and he sat up when he noticed Sherlock entered. 

“Hey,” he said softly, searching Sherlock’s face. “Everything okay?” 

Sherlock nodded, enjoying the fact that everything was still okay with his friend, even after the confusing moment that was interrupted. 

He didn’t want to bring it up and John wasn’t bringing it up, so it was left alone. 

“So, you have a nanny?” John asked, biting his tongue. 

“Technically,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “More like my-“

“Handler?” John joked. 

“Shove off,” Sherlock huffed. 

John snorted and Sherlock pulled his lips on to stop himself from smiling. 

“Come on, up you get. I only have a few minutes to teach you everything about _fine dining._ ” 

John smiled and went to move but quickly pulled his knees back towards his body, his face flushing. 

“I-I think I’ll stay seated.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, confused but brushed it off. Too much had happened in the last five minutes for him to be too concerned about John’s sitting habits.

 

 

Eleven minutes and one very confused John later, the pair were standing outside the high dining room doors, preparing themselves. 

“Okay, remember: do not speak unless you are spoken too, do not starting eating until Father has and please,” Sherlock said, facing John and looking him dead in the eye. “Please try and take everything they say with a grain of salt.”

John took a deep breath and nodded. 

“I got it.”

“John,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes in defeat. “I am sorry for anything they will say.” 

“Hey, hey,” John said, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock was too far-gone in his panic to appreciate the warmth. “I’m thick-skinned. And I agreed to the dinner so basically, if I’m insulted it’s my fault.” 

“No, no!” Sherlock practically yelled. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “If they insult you, it’s because they see themselves above you, which is not true. You are better than them, John. Please don’t believe anything they say.”

Both of John’s hands moved to Sherlock’s shoulders, trapping him and forcing him to look at John’s face. 

John’s eyes were soft and his left thumb traced small, calming circles on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, his voice as soft as the gaze in his eyes and Sherlock felt compelled to believe him.

“Okay,” he echoed.

John raised his left hand and stroked Sherlock’s hairline with his thumb and Sherlock took a shuddering breath. 

“Had a bit of dirt left,” John explained, his voice sounding just as breathless as Sherlock felt. Sherlock nodded and swallowed. He could still feel the phantom touch of John’s thumb and he wanted to see if John left a fingerprint mark on his skin. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. 

“Let’s fucking do this.” John uttered. 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Let’s,” he hesitated, “fucking do this.” 

John hummed a laugh at Sherlock’s fumble. 

“Bad influence I am.”

He gave John a cheeky smile.

“ _Je te parie que je suis pire._ ” 

Into the battlefield they go. 

 

 

Sherlock and John stood by their chairs opposite each other, waiting for Sherlock’s parents to arrive. When his mother entered, led by his father, Sherlock tensed and stood straighter, his behaviour better than it had been in years.

His mother sat down and then his father and Sherlock nodded to John that it was their turn to sit. 

Sherlock watched John shift in his seat, his spine being forced straight by the hard back of his chair. 

They exchanged pleasant greetings.

“So, Jonathan,” his father said, twisting his watch around his wrist. 

John clenched his teeth.

The Lord was dressed up more than the usual family dinners and Sherlock had a sinking sensation that it was to give off the ‘I’m-better-than-you’ vibe. His charcoal suit jacket was at its usual place draped over the chair, the dark colour of the fabric creating a shadow, making his father look regal than usual. 

His mother wasn’t dressed anymore casual, the Lady going for a pastel pink A-line dress, which made her look more pale than normal. Her matching pink freshwater pearl necklace and earring set was worth more than two terms at Harrow and dear God, she was wearing her tiara, the small heart-shape diamonds set in her soft brown hair. 

Sherlock wanted to bang his head against the table. 

“How are you liking Halton?” His father wasn’t looking at John, instead focusing on the clasp of his Rolex. 

John looked at Sherlock and received a nod.

“Uh-it’s great, I guess. I haven’t really seen much of it.” 

Sherlock’s mother was less subtle than her husband, choosing to stare John down as if she could read all his secrets, and she probably could. Sherlock did get his skill of perception from his mother, after all. 

“Ah, of course,” Adelie Holmes said, playing up her French accent a bit. “You are working in Halton Camp, in the nursing home.” 

John nodded and was blissfully interrupted by a sway of kitchen staff entering and bringing the appetiser. The meal was _porchetta_ and _polenta_ and Sherlock mentally kicked himself for not asking John his dietary requirements. 

John looked hesitantly at the meal, smelling the strong, odorous scent of pickled onions, his eyes watering at the vinegary smell.

“The pork looks good, Mummy.” Sherlock said, subtly telling John what it was. “And John’s not working at the nursing home, he’s _volunteering_.” 

Sherlock hoped that his parent’s own interest in volunteering might make them warmer towards John, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. 

His father gave a thin smile.

“Hem, how…lovely.” 

They ate the appetiser mainly in silence, with the exception of Sherlock asking his mother how her art gallery fundraiser was going. 

Sherlock watched John swallow the shredded pickled onion whole, not chewing it at all and washing it down quickly with a gulp of water.

When their empty plates were cleared away, Lord Holmes turned his attention to John again. 

“So, Jonathan.” His father said, taking a sip of his red wine. John’s jaw tightened again and Sherlock made note in his ‘John’ file.

`DOES NOT LIKE BEING CALL JOHATHAN.  
Reasoning: Unknown`. 

“What are your career goals?”

With his hands interlaced in front of him, Sherlock’s father stared at John with an air of detachment, but Sherlock saw the inquisition in his father’s eyes. 

“A doctor, sir.” 

“Ah,” his mother said with fake sympathetic understanding on her fine face. “And do you have the marks for that?” 

Sherlock watched John twitch and bristle. It was a small movement but if Sherlock caught it, he knew he mother would. 

Lady Holmes did, and a smug look crossed her eyes as the fake caring smile still graced her face. 

“Yes’m,” he said so tightly it came out as one sound. John cleared his throat. “I’m in the top three in my class.” 

Lady Holmes made a small noise. 

“That’s nice, _mon cher_.” Sherlock could taste in mockery. “Our William is in the top of his class at Harrow. He will be going to Oxford or Cambridge next year.” 

Sherlock thought it would be much more pleasurable to be gouging his eyeballs out than to be listening to this any longer. John seemed to have the same sentiments as his jaw was clenched so hard, Sherlock feared for his molars. 

“Where will you be going, Jonathan?” His father asked. 

Jaw clenched. Goodbye molars.

“King’s or Imperial, sir, but I’m leaning towards King’s,” John answered as the main course came out. 

Dinner was filet mignon with a balsamic glaze and Sherlock found small relief in the humour he found in John’s controlled disgust. 

“Ah, yes. Two very fine schools,” his mother said, cutting into her tender beef and Sherlock watched the blood seep and mix with the balsamic and desperately wished it were his own. 

“Yes, and they also have very fine scholarship programs,” his father said, his eyes nowhere near the boy he was talking to.

“Yes, they do, sir.” 

“So, are you going to be working throughout university, or continue down this volunteering path and rely on the government and my tax-paying pounds?”

“Father!” Sherlock said, drawing the attention of everyone to him. “Is that really appropriate to discuss at the dinner table?” 

“Why, William,” his father said, stabbing a green bean onto his fork with a careless air. “It’s just a casual dinner between friends. And besides, there is talk in the House about rid of free tuition for universities and certain colleges. Beware of the changing future, Jonathan. You don’t know when you might need…help.”

Sherlock wondered briefly if it were possible for a human’s jaw to fall off due to strain. 

He looked at John, to already find the boy looking at him and tried to apologise with a look. John understood and shook his head minutely, giving Sherlock a small smile. 

John picked up a green bean in a parody of his father’s finesse. “I’ve never been apposed to hard work sir, I actually have a part time job at my school. I tutor some of the younger kids in biology. I took the volunteering job this summer because well, there is no need for a bio tutor during break, is there sir?” 

There was a silence as the Holmes’ absorbed John’s sarcasm. Sherlock shoved a too big apiece of meat into his mouth to stop himself from laughing aloud. 

John noticed and gave Sherlock a small smile.

“And, like you said sir, both schools have excellent scholarship programs and my career councillor has said I have a very high chance of receiving one if I keep my marks up.”

His father’s face soured as he tried to handle himself with decorum. 

“Well, lets hope that happens,” his father said, patronisingly.

John smiled pleased into his food and Sherlock tried to calm himself.

John chewed at his meat and grimaced, chugging down half his water. 

“Lady Holmes,” John said after he swallowed, completing ignoring Sherlock’s earlier advice. His mother looked at John and away from her sulking husband, looking confused at being addressed and affronted at the lack of propriety. “You truly have a lovely home, the outer fields and gardens are wonderfully well kept.”

“ _Oui_.”

Any humour that Sherlock felt at the way John was talking and his early comments were swept away with his mother’s icy response. John just nodded, looking like he expected nothing more than what response he got.

“So, Jonathan,” his father said. “Have you got a girlfriend back home in…?”

Sherlock’s hand gripped his glass. What was his father doing? 

“Aldershot, sir. It’s between Guilford and Farnborough.” John corrected. He bit his lip, sparing a glance through his eyelashes at Sherlock. “And I broke up with my girlfriend just before break, sir.” 

Whatever his father’s response was, Sherlock didn’t hear. The world went silent except for the ringing in his ears.

John has a girlfriend. 

_Had_. John _had_ a girlfriend. Had and has were two very different things, but still, that distinction didn’t stop the lump forming in Sherlock’s trachea. He was finding it very difficult to swallow. He smiled briefly at his mother’s questioning glance and drank some more water. 

It didn’t help; in fact, it made it worse, Sherlock almost regurgitating his food and beverage before his family and friend. He swallowed it down, and could feel it settle in his stomach. 

He didn’t even want to think about the vice-like sensation around his heart.

He let the waiting staff refill his glass and he scratched his thumbnail over the meat of his left palm, willing his focus to settle on the pain there. 

His listened to his parents discussing the new developments for the Officer’s Mess Hall and met John’s concerned gaze. 

John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock smiled, answering his friend’s silent question. 

“ _You okay?_ "

Sherlock gave a short nod.

“ _Fine_.”

He mushed his roast potatoes down with his fork, watching the cooked potato squeeze between the prongs, counting down from one hundred and twenty. Each time he got down to zero, he took a small bite and checked to make sure John was okay. 

Sherlock felt fretful while simultaneously completely bored out of his mind.

John was faring much better, no longer looking tense, just disinterested, his vegetables eaten but his meat left half untouched. 

They were halfway through dessert, sweet raspberry meringues (a dish John looked very relieved to see and recognise), when his father’s mobile phone rang, the shrill ringing sounding like an angel’s call. 

His father excused himself and, with the universe proving itself to be on Sherlock’s side, his mother relieved herself soon after.  
Sherlock watched John physically relax, the tension leaving his shoulders and his normally ever-present smile returning. 

“Jesus,” John said, putting his dessert fork down. “I don’t know how you do that every night.” 

“That was astounding. You were _incroyable_.” Sherlock was amazed.

John flushed.

“I hope that’s a good thing.” 

Sherlock didn’t answer, instead watching the hilarious sight of John stuffing the pink sweet into his mouth haphazardly, crumbs falling everywhere. 

“This food is bloody amazing.” John continued through a mouthful. “Well, dessert at least.” 

Sherlock snorted and slid his plateful of meringues over to John. The boy’s eyes lit up and he devoured the other sweet almost as quickly as he did the last. 

Once John was finished, he wiped his mouth and he and Sherlock left the dining room, making their way up to Sherlock’s bedroom and their safe zone.

Safely inside, Sherlock cracked up laughing.

“What?” John asked, enjoying the way his friend laughed with mirth. 

Sherlock walked over to John and wiped down his front, where a small collection of crumbs and pink dust had covered the boy’s front. 

“Oh.” 

They both giggled as they wiped down John’s front, their hands passing every so often. 

They stopped when Sherlock’s hand rested over John’s heart, the steady heartbeat familiar and foreign to him all at once. 

John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own and squeezed. 

“Sherlock,” he said and the boy looked up at him and John held his breath.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, his lungs were barely taking in enough oxygen and his stomach was turning. They were so close Sherlock could see the faint red retinal veins in John’s eyes and the earlier discovered pimple. 

He made a half noise in the back of his throat and that was the best answer John was going to get when he was in such close proximity.

“You were quite good tonight.” Sherlock didn’t notice when he started whispering. “Better then anyone I’ve even seen and I’ve seen Dukes face off with Father.” 

John gave a small, proud smile.

“Told you I’m tough.” 

Sherlock made a sound that, if John asked, he’d deny that it was a whimper. 

John opened his mouth only to be cut off by the bonging of the grandfather clock reaching seven pm. He groaned and the noised echoed in Sherlock’s ears. 

“I have to go-“

“You have to go-,” they both said at the same time. 

John smiled ruefully and nodded. They packed up all of John’s things in a heavy silence, Sherlock’s right hand still trembling. 

They didn’t speak until they were at the backdoor, John’s bag slung over his shoulder and his blond hair illuminated by the sunset streaming through the stained windows. Sherlock thought he looked ethereal and swallowed, lowering his gaze to focus on John’s fingers gripping onto his bag’s strap.

“Well,” John drawled out, rocking on his heels. “That was…an experience.” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in an agreeing action. Sherlock had once witnessed his mother almost stab a Governor General with a silver-plated fork when he made a degrading comment about the French. 

“I am sorry,” Sherlock said feebly, picking at the lint on his trouser to avoid eye contact.

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “If we had too apologise every time our parents messed up, we’d never get anything done.”

John’s speech felt more loaded than he probably meant to give off. There was a resigned and sad tone to his voice and Sherlock realised that maybe he wasn’t the only one with rough parentages. Maybe John’s home life was just as strained as Sherlock’s. 

Maybe that’s why he apologised so much. Maybe that’s why he came all the way to Buckinghamshire for the summer. 

Sherlock was struck with a thought. If John came all this way to avoid his tense home life, how did he feel being dragged into the mess that was Sherlock’s?

John must have noticed Sherlock’s silence or Sherlock’s distress was showing on his face as the older boy patted him on the shoulder.

“I should be going,” he said sheepishly. “I have to get up at like, four tomorrow to make sure everyone’s still breathing.” 

Sherlock laughed at the morbid joke. He rubbed his palms together and asked John the burning question that had been on the tip of his tongue since dinner ended.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” There was a sense of vulnerability in the way he spoke and John was reminded of the first day they met, the insecurity and childlike innocence that John highly believed Sherlock was hiding deep down, making an appearance. 

John slid his bag off and-

He hugged Sherlock. 

Sherlock froze as John squeezed tighter. He couldn’t move his arms as John was pressing his forearms down and Sherlock thought it would be a bit awkward to not at least try and hug back. 

He patted John’s back awkwardly and John huffed a laugh and Sherlock felt the puff of air on his neck and felt it travel down his spine. 

John smelt of Sherlock’s soap and shampoo and the underlining smell of vinegar. 

He tried to speak but Sherlock was literally speechless. He felt as if his cerebrum had  
combusted and they only way he was standing was by John’s arms.

John let go after one last final squeeze and Sherlock slumped forward, his body subconsciously following John’s. 

“See ya,” John said, giving Sherlock a friendly pat. He gave Sherlock one last smile and turned. 

“Watch out for wayward badgers.” 

John turned to stare at his friend and the bizarre phrase only to find the boy’s expression stuck between bewildered and gleeful. The boy genius didn’t even look like he knew he spoke. 

“Okay,” John said, trying to hold in his laughs. “Bye.” 

Sherlock watched John walk down the pathway, illuminated by the citrus-coloured sun and tried to restart his brain. 

He didn’t know how long he stood there, but when he came too, John was gone and the sky had gone a dusty dark blue. He went upstairs and mechanically got ready for bed. 

Once wrapped up in his duvet, he went through the day, stopping and committing to memory all of the times John touched him. 

He finished and a wave of giddiness overcame him. He dived under his blankets and covered his eyes, a huge grin overtaking his face. 

John had broken him. John had mentally broken him. 

And Sherlock was absolutely delighted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Scientific Terms:**  
>  Is a mushroom, sometimes called the Cauliflower Mushroom 
> 
> **Translations:**  
>  _“William, pourquoi y a-t-il des rats mort- oh!”_ \- "William, why are there rats dead- oh!"  
>  _"Pardonnez-moi, William"_ \- Pardon me, William  
>  _"Nounou Beauharnais, rencontre Jean"_ \- Nanny Beauharnais, meet John  
>  _"Bonjour, Madame"_ \- "Hello, madame"  
>  _"Bonsoir, Jean,"_ \- "Good evening, John"  
>  _Bon à savoir_ \- Good to know  
>  _pas de rats dans la maison_ \- No rats in the house  
>  _Une minute_ \- One minute  
>  _Nounou Beauharnais, ce que tu as vu_ \- Nanny Beauharnais, what you saw  
>  _Je suis…homosexuel_ \- I am...homosexual  
>  _Je te parie que je suis pire_ \- Bet you I am worse


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to [jazzthecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzthecat/pseuds/jazzthecat) for commenting on the last chapter. It is always good to know that readers enjoy my work. 
> 
> xx

_Halton, England_  
Friday  
July 12th 1996 

Sherlock contemplated going back inside for the sixth time after he started to cough after inhaling a large mouthful of the cold dawn air. He pulled his grey coat tighter around him and straightened John’s borrowed scarf, feeling the early morning chill down to his bones. 

The sun hadn’t even risen and Sherlock was out on the very end of his driveway, on the corner of Rosemead, waiting for John. 

**The Day Before**  
Thursday,  
July 11th 1996

_“Bored,” Sherlock moaned, his head flung over the armrest of his chair, his legs sprawled over the other, with his organic chemistry textbook and his almost completed leaf analysis open on his lap._

_John snorted from where he was lying under Sherlock’s desk, choosing his A-Levels courses, which he left until last minute. He scribbled something out when a flash of lightning illuminated the small, dark room._

_Sherlock’s exasperated groan was drowned out by a rumble of thunder, which rattled the windows. Sherlock could not concentrate at all with the continuing racket of heavy rain on his antique roof._

_He rolled off his chair with grace, letting his books fall to the ground carelessly. He stood by the windows, (to the annoyance of John) and watched a lightning bolt strike in the distance, fascinated with the electrostatic discharge._

_John sat up, carefully dodging the desk above, learning from previous injuries._

_“Do something then.”_

_Sherlock groaned dramatically and flopped back onto his chair, slumping. He kicked his clothed toes under John’s flung out calves, enjoying the easy physical intimacy._

_“I can’t,” he complained, staring at the ceiling, willing it to collapse on him just so he would have something to do. “Urgh,” he groaned, lifting his toes and taking John’s right leg with him. “I need to leave Halton.”_

_John pushed Sherlock’s toes back down and lent back on his arms._

_“What are you doing tomorrow?”_

_“Dying of boredom.”_

_John gave him a look and he huffed, sliding down the chair, wiggling his toes further under John._

_“Nothing, why?”_

_John lent forward and gave Sherlock a conspiring grin._

_“Meet me at the end of your driveway at six-thirty tomorrow morning. Wear something comfortable, we’re going on a bit of a trek.”_

_“What-?” Sherlock tried to ask but John just gave him a smirk, flipping himself over and pulling Sherlock’s right foot between his shins._

_“Now, d’I need to take Maths or Further maths?”_

 

If Sherlock didn’t have a photogenic memory, he would have doubted that John told him to meet him today and at this time. Giving John, and himself, five more minutes until giving up and going back to bed and out of this cold (apparently summer) morning, Sherlock waited. 

He poked and scraped at a dying wych elm tree trunk with his pocketknife when he heard the tell tale sound of tires on asphalt. 

An aging, seaweed green van with the lettering _Halton Camp Nursing Home Patient Transfer_ peeling on the side, pulled up. The passenger door opened and Sherlock spotted John, hair sleep-tussled and grinning. 

“Sorry, I’m late.” He apologised, `seventy-four` as Sherlock climbed in. “But you have, like, four driveways.”

Sherlock shrugged and slipped his coat off, the heating in the car providing more warmth than he needed. He buckled up and took the thermos John offered. 

“Thanks,” he said, taking a sip. He groaned in pleasure at the taste of English breakfast almost burning his taste buds. Sherlock normally took more sugar, but he wasn’t one to turn down a hot cup of tea, especially this early. 

“S’right,” John said, taking the thermos from Sherlock and taking his own sip. Sherlock tried not to focus on the fact that John’s mouth is where Sherlock’s just was. 

He fiddled with his scarf as John put the tea in the cup holder, his eyes drawn to Sherlock’s fidgeting hands. 

John reached out and touched one of the frays on the fabric. 

“You’re still wearing it.”

Sherlock wanted to point out that, _obviously_ he was wearing John’s scarf but when he looked at his friend he saw the largest and brightest grin on his friends face, his eyes almost completely closed as his mouth attempted to take up all the space on his face. 

It look like the vigorousness of the smile would hurt but John didn’t let up until he shook his head, laughing self-deprecatingly and shift into drive, directing them back onto the main road. 

It didn’t take them long until John was turning into the nursing home village and they sat parked outside a cream building with a thatched roof, sharing the tea and enjoying the heat inside the vehicle. 

“So, are you going to tell me what we’re doing today?” Sherlock asked. He had followed John’s command at dressing comfortably, wearing his only pair of jeans and runners, a white button-up and light blue jumper that would do nothing to protect him from the chill but keep him cool as soon as the weather remembered that it was indeed summer.

John was dressed similar, wearing blue jeans and dirty white high-tops, a black sports jacket and a light green collar poking out on top, looking content to keep Sherlock in suspense as he ran his fingers through his hair. 

“How do you feel about old people?” John asked, completely evading Sherlock’s question. 

Sherlock didn’t want to give John his real answer, knowing that the way he viewed the elderly was not well taken by others, especially those working in age-care. 

“Alright, I supposed. I do like my Grandmère.” 

John raised his eyebrow in doubt, but he took Sherlock’s answer anyway. 

“Alright,” John said, checking his watch and turning the car off. “Out we go.” 

Sherlock followed John through the glass doors, a wave of heat and the scent of antibacterial wash and warm air washing over him as he stepped into the carpeted foyer. 

“Wait here. I need to get the keys for the closets.” 

Sherlock stayed there as he waited for John to return from down the hall, walking up to a peeling green door labelled Staff Only. 

Sherlock noticed the keypad and studied it, noting the fading numbers and flaking rubber. 

He typed in 2280 and the access light turned green and he pushed open the door revealing an empty kitchen. 

There was a jinglingly behind him and he turn, coming face to face with a confused John. 

“Did Donny let you in?”

Sherlock shook his head and John came forward, keys clinking at his belt, a confused and slightly anxious look about his face.

“Shite, I didn’t leave it unlocked, did I?” John spoke to himself.

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged.

“I opened it.”

At John’s inquisitive look, Sherlock explained.

“The keypad. Look at it, how three numbers are fading. The oil in our skin-“

“Sebum,” John interjected. 

Sherlock gave John a warm smile.

“Correct. Not only does it moisten our skin and hair,” Sherlock noticed John cringe at the word moisten and kept his amused smile to himself. “But it also breaks down foreign materials after vast amounts of exposer.” 

He stopped to gauge John’s reaction and found the boy fascinated, urging him to continue. 

“Only three of the numbers are fading so one number had to be used twice and, as two is almost completely gone, double two it is. HP22 is the postcode for Halton so, theoretically, the rest is probably Halton based as well.” Sherlock pointed to the keypad. “Eight, zero.” 

John shook his head. 

“Coordinates?”

“Halton House was built in 1880.” 

“By your Grandfather?”

“Great-Uncle Albert.”

Sherlock liked his Great-Uncle Albert, well what he had discovered in the family library when he was hell-bent on proving that he wasn’t actually related to Mycroft. Unfortunately, he was but Sherlock did find out that his Great-Uncle Alfred, who built Sherlock’s own personal prison, was gay as well. 

Well, that was a suspicion, anyway. Unmarried and keen to invite his male friends to stay over for a while.

John looked from Sherlock to the unlocked door and back, baffled.

“Incredible, absolutely incredible.” John said, not hiding his awe heavy tone. 

Sherlock wished he could blame his flaming cheeks on the warmth of the kitchen, but he never saw the logic in lying to himself. 

Sherlock looked at his shoes and followed John into the kitchen where the boy turned on the kettle and started preparing three mugs of tea. 

Sherlock was about to ask whom the third one was for when a middle-aged lady from Asian descent and a kind face entered, looking haggard but pleased to see John. 

“Johnny,” she greeted with a West Country accent. “Making tea?”

“Mornin’ Ms Grace,” John greeted, pouring in the water and stirring in the sugars. “Just PG Tips.”

“If you’re makin’-“ the nurse started and John cut her off with a steaming cup of tea. “Bless ya, boy.”

She took a sip and John handed Sherlock his and then jumped up to sit on the bench, perfectly at ease. Sherlock followed and felt the lady’s dark eyes on him. 

“And this must be your Sherlock,” she said, hiding her smile behind her mug. 

Sherlock hated himself for preening at the possessive pronoun but he did anyway, enjoying the fact that John had obviously talked about him to others. 

“Oh,” John said, mouth full of hot tea. “Ms Grace, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Grace BiYu, she’s the head of nursing here.” 

“Please to met you, ma’am,” Sherlock said, his vowels rounded and crisp from practise. 

She took his outstretched hand, and Sherlock felt her mug-heated and dry palm; politely trying to ignore the itching sensation that came whenever he touched another. 

“You too,” she responded, letting go of his hand way too slowly for his taste.

John must have noticed his discomfort and placed his empty hand next to Sherlock’s thigh, faintly touching it in a comforting gesture. 

Sherlock sat in silence, enjoying the faint touch of John’s fingertips and listened to the conversation. 

“Right, so, we’ll do brekkie and then at eight you can load Mr Vlahos up and then you can be on your way. I take it you’re bringin’ Sherlock with ya’?”

John nodded and ignored Sherlock’s questioning look. 

“Righto,” Nurse BiYu said, walking to the large sink and rinsing her mug. “I’ll go make sure Ms Alexander is up and moving and you can let Donny in.”

She went and left Sherlock and John alone. 

Sherlock watched and followed John as he went about putting everything into place. 

John ignored all of Sherlock’s enquiries about their day and who Mr Vlahos was and instead told Sherlock to help him and Sherlock, not enjoying John’s glare, caved and helped. 

They set up kitchen, putting away plastic trays and cups that spent the night drying, folding tea towels and letting in a thin, balding man with a dark beard who John greeted as Donny. 

Sherlock stood back as John wiped down the stainless steel bench tops, accepting the French toast (which John called ‘eggy-bread) that Donny had freshly cooked and offered him for both John and himself. He ate half of his, giving the rest to John who elegantly stuffed the bread straight into his mouth in one bite.

They entered the dining room, Sherlock overwhelmed with the smell of rose-musk and potpourri and was greeted by a small group of elders sitting down on soft pink sleeper chairs, a few whom Sherlock recognised. 

One recognised Sherlock right away, while the few others originally from Halton looked at him from old eyes, their age-addled brains trying fruitfully to remember where they had seen the pale boy with out of control curls before. 

“You look familiar, boy.” A woman in a powder blue dressing gown said. “Are you from around here?” 

Sherlock recognised this woman to be Mrs St. James, the mother of the local mechanic in Aston Clinton, her son often making the trip down to Halton to lend a hand to the military mechanics. 

“I’m from Halton, ma’am.” 

She took his wrist in her surprising firm grip and looked him up and down. 

“My word, you must be the Holmes’ boy!” With her exclamation, all those around them, who could hear and were awake, stared at the pair, peering leeringly over their spectacles. “You’re Mycroft, aren’t you? Why, I would have thought you’d be at university by now, but my memory is shoddy at best nowadays.”

Sherlock frowned and gently eased his arm from the winkled vice, his chest clenching at being mistaken for his stupid brother. 

“No, no, Mycroft has finished university,” an old man interjected. “This must be the other one.” 

“I didn’t know the Holmes’ had another son,” said another old woman sitting in the corner, her slippers on the opposite feet.

Many made agreeing noises and Sherlock sucked his teeth, feeling the hollow sensation he always got when people forgot about him. 

“Yes, well,” came John, standing directly behind Sherlock and steered him towards the tea tray. “They do, and today, he’ll have the honour of serving you your tea!” 

Sherlock turned to glare at John and saw a sad, sympathetic look in his friend’s eyes and Sherlock realised what John was doing. 

He poured the brewed tea into small, plastic cups, thankful to John for moving the conversation away from Sherlock’s apparent non-existence and handed them out, half listening to the town gossip. 

“So, John,” said Mrs St. James. “When are you going to play us your wonderful clarinet again?” 

Sherlock turned and saw John paused over the milk jug, blushing and stuttering.

“Um, soon Mrs S.” 

Mrs St. James leant over her tray and grabbed Sherlock forearm.

“You have to hear him play,” she whispered covertly. “Amazing, that boy.” 

“Thank you, Mrs St. James,” John said, stilted as Sherlock tried to muffle his snickers into his elbow. He didn’t do a good job and was met with the glare and pout of his friend. 

“I’ll be sure to ask him,” Sherlock said, sharing a sly look with the old woman. 

John walked past him with the milk and playfully slapped him. 

“Shuddup’” John whispered into Sherlock ear as he passed. Sherlock pulled his lips in to hide his smile, enjoying the feeling of John against his back.

Nurse BiYu walked in, wheeling an elderly, tan man with many liver spots gracing his aged face. 

“John,” she said, wheeling the man into the corner. “Mr Vlahos just needs to eat and then you boys can leave.” 

John nodded as the old man’s eyes flew open and tried to wiggle away from his nurse.

“Get off me, you Cracker Jap. I fought your ancestors in the war and I can fight you too.” 

Nurse BiYu just rolled her eyes and forced some medication into the old man’s hands. 

“Make sure he eats and takes his meds, alrigh’?” 

John nodded and Nurse BiYu left the room, Mr Vlahos’ bellowing calls of something Sherlock was fairly sure was very racist following her out. 

John took a full cup of tea from Sherlock and placed it next to Mr Vlahos, making sure the old man took his medication. 

“Tess,” John said to the blonde nurse’s aide who was handing out bowls of porridge. “Please make sure Mr Vlahos eats.” 

Sherlock followed John out the room, liking the warmth in John’s eyes when he said goodbye to the other patients. John really did seem to enjoy looking after people. 

“John,” Sherlock said, pulling John’s attention away from the dark-skinned receptionist who handed John a file and canvas medical bag with a red cross on it. John hummed in reply, stuffing the file into the bag and entering the kitchen from the ‘ _Staff only_ ’ door again, Sherlock at his heels. “Why was Mr Vlahos calling Nurse BiYu Japanese? She’s Chinese, is she not?” 

He gave Sherlock a small smile and went about making a second cup of tea in the thermos mug. 

“He’s racist, he thinks all Asians are the same.” 

He watched John pour two sashes of sugar into the beverage. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock said, taking the thermos John offered him. When John turned around, Sherlock quickly emptied three more sugar packets inside and then contiuned following John back out into the foyer. “Japan and China are two different countries. That’s like saying I’m from Sweden because I’m so pale.”

John gave him a small, fond smile, walking outside to the van and opening the back. 

“He’s from a different time,” he said, his voice straining as he pushed a ramp hidden from under the seats until it was in place. “He fought the Japanese in the war and since we won, he thinks we’re ‘superior’.”

Sherlock frowned.

“She’s English, is she not?”

John nodded. 

“It’s her race, not where she was born that bothers him. Although, I don’t think he appreciates her West Country accent.” 

Sherlock let it go, chalking it up to difference in generation and opinion. 

“Ironic, though. He’s Greek. Hellenophobia is a thing.” 

John just shrugged.

“Some people are just dicks, ‘suppose.”

 

Back inside the dining room, John kneeled down beside Mr Vlahos, who was glaring at the other patients. 

“Mr Vlahos,” John said loudly, directly into his ear. “I’m going to take you to your cardiovascular appointment.” 

“What?” The man shouted.

“Cardiovascular appointment,” John explained louder, patting over his heart trying to illustrate his unheard words. 

“Why didn’t you just say that?” 

John held his tongue and rolled his eyes, wheeling Mr Vlahos outside. 

Sherlock watched John push the wheelchair bound man up the ramp, his own hands warmed by the hot travelling mug. 

“Easy, boy!” Mr Vlahos said from inside the van. John got out and shut the backdoor, but not before Sherlock heard the muttered ‘useless boy’ from the man. 

“Charmer, isn’t he?” Sherlock snorted and took a sip of the tea, passing it to John. “Cheers.” 

John took a sip and grimaced.

“Did you add more sugar? Dear God Sherlock, I can’t feel my teeth.” 

Sherlock snorted and their laughter was cut off by a door closing and Nurse BiYu walking towards them, brandishing a map and envelope. 

“Here,” she said, handing the map to Sherlock and the envelope to John. “Put petrol in the car and get something to eat, it’s an hour drive.” John nodded and Sherlock opened the map, following the penned in directions. “See yous’ around five.” 

John answered her but Sherlock didn’t hear, just focusing on following the directions marked in biro, from the nursing home all the way too-

“We’re going to London?” 

John turned at Sherlock’s question, a pinched expression on the younger boy’s face. 

“Yeah, Mr Vlahos has an appointment at nine-thirty at the clinic on Harley Street. It doesn’t end ‘til around four, so I thought we could explore London. That’s why I told you to wear comfortable clothes.”

If someone asked Sherlock why he did what he did, he couldn’t give you a straight answer, only a wide grin and a vast amount of incomprehensible but happy noises. 

Sherlock displayed his happiness the only way that he felt he could, by jumping into John’s arms, his own wrapping around the boy’s neck. 

Sherlock had never hugged anyone on his own terms before, and if this is what it felt like all the time, he was certainty missing out. 

John’s hands automatically went around Sherlock’s waist, steadying the boy with each small jump he did, listening to the repeating words of “thank you” over and over again.

Neither of the boys noticed the nurse smile to herself and leave, both of them caught up in Sherlock’s happiness. 

Sherlock let go and went to open his door, frowning at its resistance. 

“John,” Sherlock moaned, pulling at the handle as if it would magically unlock it. “Let’s goooooo.” 

John chuckled and opened the car, sliding into the driver’s seat. 

They pulled out of the nursing home’s driveway and turned. 

“You have a very important job,” John said and Sherlock turned towards him, eyes shining. “You have to be navigator,” he said, tapping at the map in Sherlock’s hand. “And,” he said, coming to a stop, “you have to pick the snacks.” 

They had pulled up at a service station, John hopping out to refuel. Sherlock turned in his seat to ask Mr Vlahos if he wanted something, only to find the mean-tempered old man asleep. 

Inside and debating on whether to get Salt and Vinegar or Prawn Cocktail, Sherlock didn’t hear John approach him, startling when the boy poked him in the side. 

“Whadda pickin’?” John asked, his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock didn’t think much of it, the confectionary stand was small and fitted into a corner, so it made sense that John had to peak over Sherlock to browse. Still, this reasoning didn’t stop Sherlock’s stomach from dropping and he had to prevent himself from melting into the warm body behind him. 

“Walker’s,” Sherlock said. “And Digestives, do you want Hobnobs or plain chocolate?”

“Chocolate, and get Prawn Cocktail Walker’s,” John said, walking towards the drinks and register. “Can’t stand vinegar.” 

Sherlock grabbed the crisps and biscuits and walked over to John, remembering John’s face when he had to eat balsamic vinegar covered meat when he ate at Sherlock’s house. 

John grabbed two drinks and payed. 

With the tank filled up, they hit the road, the old Mr Vlahos snoring quietly to himself in the back.

 

They came to the T-junction at the very edge of Halton, Sherlock on the edge of his seat at just the idea of leaving Halton this summer. 

“Okay,” Sherlock said, twisting his map around. “Turn right onto Tiring Hill.” John did and Sherlock flipped his map around again. He thought the map was upside down, but he flipped it again and the words went upside down. He huffed, spinning it again. Orienteering had never been his strong suit. 

“Then go right at the first roundabout,” he continued, John laughing at his attempt at map reading. “And then over a bridge?” He frowned. Why were there two roundabouts? “And the right at the next roundabout and then…umm.”

Sherlock couldn’t ignore John’s snickers.

“What?”

“Have you not lived here your entire life?” John asked, indicating into the left lane. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, firmly. 

“Then how don’t you know your way around? Don’t you go ta’ Harrow? How do you get there, helicopter?”

Sherlock slumped in his seat, letting the folded out map lay over him like some sort of paper blanket. 

“Allen drives me.” 

“Oh, that’s right, your driver.” He said, drawling out the last word. “God, you’re posh.”

Sherlock punched him in the thigh. Normally, when others called him posh he took offense, but he knew John was joking. 

He enjoyed the easy banter between the two of them knowing there were no ill words or meanings. It was rare that anyone teased him without being malicious. 

“Not posh,” Sherlock contradicted, knowing this debate was futile after many rounds of it. 

“Bed curtains!” John said, bringing up the only argument that Sherlock couldn’t oppose. 

Being the mature and intelligent boy that he was, Sherlock gave John his best argument. 

“Did you just blow a raspberry at me?” John asked, sounding like he didn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused. 

Sherlock blew another one and laughed at John’s incredulous expression. 

Sherlock looked out the window at all the passing trees and studied the passing building and parking bay. 

“Ooo, I know where we are.” Sherlock said, turning to John with a proud smile. “There was a huge fight outside that pub and someone got stabbed!”

John wanted to add a remark but he saw Sherlock’s proud and happy expression and didn’t want to be a downer, inside smiling at the boy fondly. 

“Sweet,” he said, not sounding at all sarcastic and Sherlock preened. ”Now, try and get us to London.” 

After one argument and four turns around one roundabout, Sherlock hid himself behind the unfurled map, determined to get them their.

John checked his rear-view mirror to make sure that Mr Vlahos hadn’t rolled around too much and found the senior passenger still snoozing.

“Right,” Sherlock said, shaking the map to straighten it. “Stay on this road until we reach the A4251, but’s that’s not for… thirteen point one miles, so we have some time.” 

He lowered the map and smiled brightly at John, happy to be helping. John didn’t look at him as he was focusing on driving on the busy motorway but he smiled back and Sherlock caught it, sinking into his seat feeling content and giddy. 

Even including the snoozing senior in the back, this is the most alone he and John had ever been, without the company of countless maids and soldiers running in and out the grounds of Halton. 

He didn’t know why that made him so breathless, but he took it in stride, enjoying the view from his window, the anticipation of going to London unchaperoned and the warm humming body of the boy to his right. 

After fifteen minutes, Sherlock became agitated, bored of memorising number plates and the year they were distributed, and he leant down and opened the packet of Digestives. 

He ate one, enjoying the chocolate-ty and crumbly wholemeal, licking his chocolate-coated fingertips as the radio announced the traffic report. 

“Give me one,” John said, reaching out. The car swerved slightly and John slapped both hands back on the steering wheel. “Shit.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Try and not kill us,” he said, around the biscuit. John made a grabby noise.

“Sherlock,” he complained, letting go of the wheel quickly and poking Sherlock in the thigh. “I’m hungry.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his friend’s whiney tone. Sherlock had learnt over the course of their new-fangled friendship that John became quite whiney when denied food and down right boorish when hungry. 

He took one from the packet, trying to figure out how to execute this, with John changing lanes and merging, his concentration rightly on the road. He snapped the round sweet in half and shoved one half into the boy’s mouth. 

John grunted but took the biscuit from Sherlock, their hands touching for a moment. Sherlock whipped his hand back, curling it around protectively around the circular packet, his stomach in knots and his hand tingling from the short touch.

“Cheers,” John said, his mouth full and took a large sip of the cooling tea from the thermos between them. “Can’t have Digestives without tea.” 

Sherlock took John’s word for it, never mixing the two himself and not planning on doing. Sherlock had just gotten over his stupid aversion of eating food that was touching, but he wasn’t quite ready to mix two different food types. Tea and snacks weren’t supposed to go together, no matter what most of the world thought. The rest of world was stupid and wrong. 

John had finally switched off the dreary news but the channel he chose wasn’t much better. 

“Oh shit, I love this song.” He said, cranking the volume so loud, Sherlock thought that it could (irrationally) awaken the deaf sleeping man behind them. 

“- _Pardon, two minutes too late. It’s ironic, don’t you think?”_ John sang in a bad imitation of falsetto. Sherlock did notice how much emotion John was putting it, not matter how exaggerated. _“It’s like raaaiinnn on your wedding day. It’s a free riiiide, after you’ve already paid._ ” John belted, his voice surprising nice and on key, his palms tapping along to the drums in the background. _“It’s the good adviiiiiice that you just didn’t take. Who would’ve thought,_. He flung his arm out and clutched at Sherlock’s jumper dramatically. _“It figurrrred.”_

Sherlock was laughing so hard his stomach hurt. John was trying to sing along to the next verse, but kept being interrupted but his hiccupping chuckles. 

_“And as the plaane crash down he thought,”_ John sang, moving his shoulders in an attempted to dance along. John turned to Sherlock. _“Well, isn’t this nice? And isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?”_

Sherlock leant down, opening John’s bag and taking out his Polaroid camera he had all but given to John. 

He snapped a picture while John was passionately belting out the chorus. 

The picture printed and as he waited for it to develop, he watched his oblivious friend.

 _“You think everything’s gone wrong and everything blows up in your face,”_ he sang so fast and in such a silly voice that it became almost incomprehensible. Sherlock laughed and John pulled a face, sticking out his tongue. 

_“A traffic jam, when you’re already late. A no-smoooking sign, on your cigarette break.”_ John sang to himself, his voice normal as he concentrated on changing gears and lanes. 

Sherlock noted that John actually had a very nice voice, an underlining ability to do more than just hold a tune. 

_“-Need is a knife. It’s meeting the man of my dreams,”_ he sang, putting back on the joking voice. _“Then meeting his beautiful wife.”_

He turned, checking something and then looked at Sherlock, a bright grin over coming him face. 

“Ready?” 

Sherlock nodded, not knowing what he was agreeing to.

 _“And yeah, I really do think_ ,” he sang in his normal voice. He drummed really hard on the steering wheel blatantly shouting the chorus. _“ It’s like raaain on your wedding day. It’s a free riiiide when you’ve already paid. It’s the good adviiice that you’d just-“_

Sherlock giggled as he listened to his friend sing/shout the rest of the song, looking at the picture that finally developed. 

It was a nice one, obviously. Sherlock had come to realise that John was very photogenic no matter what state he was in. John’s strong profile was highlighted by the morning sun, his hair and skin more golden, flawless, his head thrown back in song, his eyes (dangerously) squeezed closed. 

Sherlock loved it. 

He was going to add it to the (increasingly large) collage he had on his bedpost. He hid the little square under his thigh, hiding it from John. 

He mentally started working out where he would tape the picture, deciding on the headboard, next to the photo of them dripping wet and grinning, leaves and twigs adorning their hair from their experimentation adventure. 

_“-You out_ ,” John crooned, finishing the song with air guitar, strumming along with one hand. 

Sherlock applauded and John mocked bowed. 

‘Thank you, thank you, I’m here all week.” 

He snatched the rest of his Digestive and stuffed it into his mouth. 

“You’re quite a good singer,” Sherlock compliments and John snorted. “Seriously,” he said. “You’re very good. Maybe you could sing _and_ play your clarinet for me.” 

John stuck his tongue out and Sherlock bit down on his, hiding his smirk. 

“Twat.” 

The song changed to a keyboard riff.

 _“Dear, I fear, we’re fac-“_

“Fuck no,” John said, immediately changing the station. 

 

Ten miles later, Sherlock’s head was lolling against the window, calculating the speed and velocity of the cars surrounding them, and watching John chug his Coke, humming along to someone saying that that is how is how they do it. 

“I’m bored,” Sherlock complained, pulling his knees up to his chest, his seatbelt twisting awkwardly as he leant against the car door, facing John. “Entertain me.”

John turned the radio down, making Mr Vlahos’ snores more audible. 

“Okay, how?’ John asked, humouring him as he stuffed some crisps into his mouth from the open bag in the centre console. 

“Why clarinet?’ 

John gave him a look and rolled his eyes. 

“Da wanted us to do a sport. Harry chose swimming and I chose rugby but Mum wanted us to do something more…academic? Harry did Girl’s Brigade and I got stuck with clarinet.”

“You didn’t pick it?”

John shook his head.

“GB is a church group thingy, and the parish also had a large orchestra for teens and clarinet was the only instrument without a player.”

“You never quit?”

John shook his head again, changing lanes.

“It grew on me, I supposed. Harry quit though, after a year. Guess I’m the stubborn one in the family. But I like music and I was good at it.” John turned left. “Plus I got an A* on the A-Levels and that’s good for unis.” 

Sherlock hummed, enjoying the new information on John.

“Turn at the next right. I always wanted to learn the violin.” Sherlock added, unfolding the map again. “But Mummy never liked the sound of string instruments.” 

John gave him a small smile. 

“Maybe when you move out.”

“Yeah, maybe.” 

 

 

Sherlock was practically vibrating in his seat when they drove past Regents Park. They turned down Harley Street, Sherlock eyes and mind working double time to take in and process all that was around them. 

A man in a suit and briefcase walked down the street, limping slightly. `Doctor who had been on his feet most of the night, hasn’t eaten or shaved`. A young woman behind him, headphones over her ears. `Just finished the morning shift at a café, coffee grounds on her shoes, coffee stains on her cuffs, worn-out but alert`. An elderly couple sitting on a bench, a small dog between them. `Been together for more than ten years, not each other’s first spouse (rings too new), wife hates the dog as she is minor allergic, husband doesn’t know.`

“You alright?” 

Sherlock turned to face John, an almost awe like expression on his face.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m great.” 

John smiled and parallel park in front of their final destination. 

John woke the sleeping pensioner, much to his distaste, the old man spitting curses and insults in both English and Greek, and rolled him into the reception, a carefully neutral expression on his face. 

Sherlock wasn’t very good at hiding his (very rare but strong) emotions and gave the complaining patient such a withering glare that the man fell silent and crossed his arms, looking for all the world like a sullen child. Sherlock didn’t like what Mr Vlahos was calling John. 

Sitting down on a creaky plastic car, Sherlock tapped his nails on his half-finished _Vimto_ can, enjoying the shallow sound. 

He watched John wheel Mr Vlahos to the nurse on duty handing her over the file from the bag. He signed something quickly and then waved bye to the now silent old man, not looking at all remorseful to see him leave. 

“Ready?” John asked and Sherlock jumped up, almost tripping his haste. 

“Yeah, yeah, come on!” He pulled John out of the clinic, the boy laughing as he let himself be led. 

Once outside, Sherlock didn’t know where to look. They were in a quiet street but still, it was London. Sherlock was in London without his parents and some stupid fundraiser, without school or Mycroft. Sherlock was in London with John Watson and they could do anything. 

He took a deep breath, inhaling the morning air and sighed. 

This, this is where he was supposed to be. 

Most left the city to escape to the countryside to live out the rest of their lives with clean, fresh air, but Sherlock felt the country air suffocated him, craving the freedom and frenzy and stimulants of the busy, crowded city. 

“Where do you want to go?” John asked and Sherlock looked at him, the boy’s face flushed with pleasure and a happy grin matching his glowing eyes. 

‘Southbank! No, Waterloo! No, the City! No!” Sherlock said, his hands pulling at the vee of his jumper at his exhilaration. He trained wide eyes on John. ‘Take me to Scotland Yard!” 

Two day passes and one tube ride later, Sherlock and John stood outside the Metropolitan Police precinct, Sherlock gazing up row upon row of windows, mesmerised by the building and everything he couldn’t see inside. His friend, however, stood back, watching his friend stare at the building, a fond feeling bubbling in his chest. 

“Hey, Sherlock,” someone yelled, calling Sherlock out of his trance. He turned back to John and was met with a flash. His eyes refocussed, finding a grinning John lowering the camera. 

“Stop it,” Sherlock said, walking towards his friend. He took the camera from John and snapped one of the other boy. “See? Two can play at this game.”

“Touché.”

 _“Si vous voulez parler français, Jean, dites-le_.” Sherlock said, teasing his friend. John rolled his eyes. 

“Sacré bleu.” 

It was Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes. 

_“Est-ce tout ce que vous savez? Allons. Où aimerais tu aller ensuite?”_

“English, please.” 

‘Where do you wanna’ go next?” 

John just smiled at him and walked away. 

Sherlock watched him leave, a sinking sensation starting from his heart and twisting its way throughout his chest. Why was John leaving him? Was John angry with him? He didn’t seem angry, his jaw wasn’t clenched and his neck wasn’t flushed and Sherlock knew those were John physical identifiers to his anger. 

Sherlock was torn out of self-dispute by the call of his name. He looked up at John, finding the boy looking worriedly at him, but nonetheless, a small smile on his face.

“Come on.” 

Sherlock jogged to catch up with his friend, their shoulders brushing as they shared a smile, weaving their way through the sea of determined civilians. 

John led them across the Westminster Bridge, and stopped them half way across, leaning over the barrier at the River Thames. 

The sun had risen, creating shines on the water, each small wave gleaming with sunlight every time it gathered and crashed. 

John stopped a passer-by, a frazzled but agreeable mother, -`just dropped her kids off, up all night with a sick one, pregnant again.-` and handed her one of his disposables. He put his arm around Sherlock, the Thames to their backs and smiled at the makeshift photographer. 

John thanked her and the lady smiled, walking away. 

“We’re acting like tourist,” Sherlock said, leaning against the railings and watching people bustle down the busy streets on the city. 

John shrugged.

“When in Rome.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but followed John, glad that he took John’s advice on wearing comfortable shoes, as he foresaw them doing a lot of walking on their day trip. 

“So, where do you want to go? Big Ben? London Bridge? Oh, we can see a movie. I don’t know what’s playing but—“

“We’re in London and you want to spend two hours in a theatre?” Sherlock asked, incredulously. 

John had the good grace to look apologetic and Sherlock accepted it. 

“I want to find all the secret spots in London, alleyways and underpasses and vacant train stations and what have you.”

John was only a little wary of the almost manic glint in his friends eyes, so when he repeated his question and Sherlock’s only answer was a small smirk and the tug on John’s left arm, the boy being led felt nervous but exhilarated all the same. 

 

John pulled him into a small shop, where rows upon rows of CDs, tape and records sat, John making a pleased noise beside Sherlock before striding over towards the Blues section. 

Sherlock wandered around, stopping by the record player, flipping through the many vinyls, seeing if he could deduce where they had originated.

He stopped when he saw the age-worn record that brought back so many memoires.

“What did you find?” John said from behind him, peaking his head over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Fred Astaire?” 

Sherlock nodded.

“Father loves him. I grew up listening to him. And Frank Sinatra. I learnt how to waltz to _My Way.”_

John breathed out a soft laugh and starting humming the melody to _Dancing Cheek to Cheek_. 

He continued, slowing getting louder as he roamed the rows, picking up tapes and CDs and studying the backs, the tune that Sherlock loved dearly still flowing from his mouth. 

John stopped when he found something, calling Sherlock over to the wall-mounted cassette player.

“If you like Astaire and Sinatra, might I recommend The Contours?” 

He placed the large headphones over Sherlock’s ears and pressed play and Sherlock’s ears were hit with steel guitar. 

_“You broke my heart ‘cause I couldn’t dance. You didn’t even want me around and now I’m back to let you know, I can really shake them down.”_

John walked away from Sherlock to continue browsing but made sure to keep in Sherlock’s eyesight, wanting to see his reaction. 

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered at the sudden drumming but continued listening to the husky singing. 

Sherlock was really enjoying it, it was actually and he enjoyed the man’s voice, he was just trying not to overthink the meaning of the lyrics and why John chose this song. 

_“Do you love me? Do you love me?”_

John caught Sherlock’s eyes and smile, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock flushed and nodded. 

He stopped the tape and took the headphones off, following John around the store, trying to stop the warm feeling in his chest showing on his pink cheeks. 

“See this?” John said, holding up a black and white CD. “The Moody Blues, Nights in White Satin.” He smiled at Sherlock. “First song I leant to play on the clarinet.”

“How does it go?” 

John gave Sherlock a small smile and put the small, plastic square back. 

“I’ll play it for you.” 

Good news was, the warm chest in Sherlock’s chest was gone. Bad news, it spread to a lump in his throat and he had the odd feeling of wanting to hug John again,

He looked away, his face hot, picking up a CD at random.

“The Monkees. Nice choice. Heart & Soul and Daydream Believer.” 

 

By the time midday had rolled around, both John and Sherlock’s feet were aching, their shoes and pant cuffs stained with dirt and soot from their many trips down dark and suspicious alleys, a new tape for John rattling around in his backpack. 

While Sherlock was certain that this wasn’t exactly John had in mind when he invited Sherlock to explore London with him, his companion wasn’t complaining. 

John wasn’t not complaining out of politeness, he seemed to be really enjoying himself, happily following Sherlock down dark backstreets and enjoying Sherlock extensive monologue on the crime history of London, adding his own facts about the more modern additions to the city.

While both boys were enjoying themselves, they had been walking for more than three hours, which is how they ended up under a tree in Hyde Park, sharing a newspaper-wrapped cone of hot chips. 

Sherlock sat crossed legged against the tree with John beside him, amusing his friend by deducing the passers-by.

“Do the lady with the blonde hair,” John asked, dipping one chip into the curry sauce in the Styrofoam cup in his hand. Sherlock had refused to let John pour it all over their shared meal. 

“Walk of shame.” He swallowed his mouthful of warm potato. “Her clothes are expensive but rumpled, a woman who pays that much attention to current fashion trends wouldn’t leave in it unironed, so she had no choice and someone who pays that much for Marc Jacob shoes would never leave her house looking so dishevelled. Remnants of lipstick and mascara still linger smudged on her face, so she probably didn’t have time to check her appearance before her abrupt departure. Also,” he continued, leaning forward and straining his eyes to get a better look. “She has a small club admittance stamp on her right hand.”

“Brilliant.” 

Sherlock flushed and shoved a chip ineloquently into his mouth, his chest tight. No matter how much John complimented him, he still got this tight, almost shaking feeling near his diaphragm. 

“Honestly, it’s absolutely brilliant. How do you see everything? And so quickly.” 

Sherlock shrugged, always finding it hard to explain how he saw what he saw. He was taught by his mother and then Mycroft to look closer but it always came easier to him then it did to his teachers. 

His ability to not get tied up in propriety and wellness of others really helped him focus on honing his skill and getting the hard-to-see clues. 

John lied down; his black jacket supporting his head and Sherlock watched his green tie-dye shirt rise up his lower abdomen. Fixated on John’s bellybutton, Sherlock almost didn’t notice John’s crossed legs settling over his own sprawled out ones. 

He flushed as John leaned up on his elbows, reaching for the cone of chips and Sherlock stared at his friend, engrossed in the highlighting of John’s blond hair and eyelashes by the warm, bright sun. 

His eyes flicked down and fixed once again on John’s naval, his gaze attracted to the glinting blond hair leading from his bellybutton down beneath his trousers. It was irrational but Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes away, all ready to blame his flushing cheeks on the heat of the sun lest he was asked. 

He dragged his gaze up and met the resting boy’s open and relaxed expression, his blue eyes in slits staring right back at him, his mouth quirked in a small smile. 

Sherlock pulled his chin in, embarrassed at being caught out. John didn’t seem bothered about the same thing, instead pushing his right leg underneath both of Sherlock’s and settling there. 

John sighed and closed his eyes, Sherlock, now at liberty to be more open with his staring- _observing_ -, counted the brown and gold freckles that adorned John’s sun-kissed face.

He thought John lucky, his skin able to adapt to the extra UV-rays, his skin happily sucking them in, his skin colouring darker. The only colour the sun made Sherlock was a vivid and bright red. Sherlock thought it strange, that with John’s Scottish ancestry, that he had extra melanin but Sherlock supposed that John’s father must be of Southern European descendant. 

He pressed his hand against his cheek, feeling the heated flesh. No doubt his cheeks and nose were burnt. He dreaded the oncoming tightness and discomfort he would suffer for a few days before he annoyingly started to peel. 

He felt oddly embarrassed by his burning skin. He didn’t want John to see him all red and blotchy, which was a stupid sentiment to feel gathering the state of John’s own sun-abused scalp. 

Frowning at himself, he leant back against the tree and slid down gradually, until John’s leg was resting more comfortably under his knees and settled in. 

Sherlock tried to relax and rest his tired feet but he could not. He was becoming irritable. He was in London, with no deadlines and no parent supervision and was wasting it by resting. 

He tried to calm himself as John was obviously enjoying the downtime. Unlike Sherlock, who had nothing to do all holidays, John worked and this was one of the rare occasions that he had time off, so Sherlock willed himself to relax. 

He went about reorganising his London file in his mind palace, his hands moving on their own accord as he permanently entered the location of the music shop, you know, just in case. 

“You bored?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and saw one of John peaked open and sat on his hand, hiding their restlessness.

“No.”

John scoffed and rolled his eyes, pulling himself and then Sherlock up. If John’s hand lingered on Sherlock’s for a second too long, well, Sherlock and his tingly spine didn’t mind. 

They walked to Piccadilly Circus; John waiting patiently each time Sherlock stopped to looked around and memorize the city surrounding him. He peaked into every alley and crevasse they walked passed until John had to either stop him from diving head first into a dumpster or physically pull him away from where he was trying to figure out what the odd meat-looking substance that a stray cat was consuming. 

 

 

Sherlock sat on the top step leading up to the Shaftebury Memorial Statue, waiting for John to return from the bathroom, his hand clenched around the strap of John’s bag so tightly that the rough material burned his hand. 

He closed his eyes and listened to the ambiance noise of the city. The blurred and inaudible conversations around him, the steady passing of cars with their old and rusted exhaust pipes rumbling, the whiney shriek of the misused breaks of the Routemaster buses; loaded and weighed down by tourists. There was so much happening. 

Generally, Sherlock found too much noise and commotion overwhelming, especially during classroom debates and during one of his mother’s many, _many,_ charity balls but today, here in the city he’s longed for, for so long, Sherlock felt at peace. 

He opened his eyes and focussed on the people milling around him. 

A blonde woman passed; `lawyer, aged around forty to forty-five, married, no kids, bunions`. Man on the bench across the street; `homeless, around sixty, drug-addict. The boy who settled down next to him; late teens, out of work, shifty`. 

Sherlock shuffled over, away from the stranger who seemed to be edging closer towards him. 

He straightened, continuing his deductions and went about figuring out if the man in front of him knew that his infant son he was rocking was not biologically his. 

There was a cough from his right and he instinctively turned towards the noise. Something tugged roughly at his left hand so hard that he fell forward onto his palms and John’s bag was ripped from his grip. 

He stood up, wiping his stinging hands on his jeans and watched the boy who had previously sat next to him get away with John’s bag. 

Sherlock panicked and rummaged around his mind palace, trying to work out what to do, only to spot John talking to the bag thief. 

Sherlock was too far away to hear what was being said but John did not look happy. His friend’s usually kind face was pulled together tightly, his brows furrowed and his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. 

The mugger took a step towards John and Sherlock saw his friend visibly snort. John then stepped forward and Sherlock was suddenly struck by the vast height difference. The makeshift thief had over a foot on John.

Sherlock started to make his own way over to the hostile pair when he saw the taller boy go to pull something out of this hooded jumper pocket.

“John!” Sherlock tried to forewarn but he needn’t have bothered. John had obviously predicted the attack and he grabbed the assailant’s hand and twisted the other boy’s wrist into an unnatural angle. Sherlock watched as the bag dropped from the would-be mugger’s hand and he fell to his knees.

Sherlock felt like he couldn’t breathe as he watched John bend down and whisper something to the kneeling criminal. John picked up his bag and made a beeline towards Sherlock.

John took Sherlock’s injured hands in his and inspected the scrapes. 

“Are you okay?”

Sherlock found that he couldn’t swallow, let alone talk, so he settled for nodding. 

John sat him down and opened his bag and pulled out his much-loved and much-used first aid kit. 

Sherlock watched as John cleaned the broken skin of his palms. He felt like he had swallowed a balloon and it had just inflated in his stomach when John’s hand wrapped firmly around his wrist. 

John could probably feel his steadily increasing pulse but seemed courteous enough not too bring attention to it. 

He gently smeared the antiseptic cream into Sherlock’s damaged skin and Sherlock soon had to shuffle and cross his legs. 

John took notice.

“Stings a bit?” He asked, raising his eyebrows. “Sorry. Should be right soon.”

Sherlock nodded. He hadn’t crossed his legs due to due to discomfort, well, not the kind John was insinuating. Sherlock had, embarrassingly, started to become quite noticeably aroused. 

While it was a completely natural and normal thing for any healthy fifteen-year-old boy to experience and while his hormones were more than often running amuck then not, Sherlock didn’t think that this particular incident was just a side affect of puberty. 

No, Sherlock believed that this…issue was made by both his attachment and his begrudgingly admitted attraction to John and the gentle and almost sensual nature in which said boy was touching him. 

Of course John had touched him before, many a times actually as John was a very physically affectionate person and Sherlock often ends up with small wounds that John has an affinity to heal and while Sherlock may get a little twitterpated during those circumstances, his physical reactions have never been quite this obvious or severe. 

Perhaps it was the stark contrast between the gentle and caring boy he had become to know and the alpha male he just witnessed fight off a mugger. 

Sherlock had always had a thing for soldiers, so why would a future army doctor be any different?

Unfortunately, figuring out the cause of one’s arousal does not extinguish it nor make it any less obvious and John was certainly not helping matters by his dry yet comforting hands and his soothing hums. 

In fact, if it were possible, he was making it worse. 

Sherlock couldn’t hear anything except the heavy thumping sound of his heartbeat. 

He clenched his feet and calves, willing his blood away from his interested crotch and towards his legs. 

Thankfully it somewhat worked. John had just finished the longest ever clean up and sanitation of a mild scrape ever and stood up, pulling Sherlock gently up with him. 

Sherlock pulled his jumper over his still-excited-but-less-so-obvious crotch, thanking his mother’s genes for his inherited small stature and his nanny’s inability to buy jumpers that actually fit him.

“Ah,” John said, checking his watch as he swung his bag over his shoulder. “It’s twenty to four, we should probably head back to Mr Vlahos.” He looked back at Sherlock. “Are you alright? You’re very flushed.”

“It’s the heat,” Sherlock lied, his voice shaky as he tried to control himself. 

John raised his eyebrows in understanding.

They walked across the street and down to the Underground; Sherlock making sure his lower body was just out of John’s eye level, taking smaller strides than usual and walking much more gingerly. 

They made their way to the far end of the station, John having to pull Sherlock over the yellow line as Sherlock was far too close to falling on the tracks for John’s liking. 

Sherlock crouched against the wall, losing himself in the bustling noise of foot traffic and conversations, the occasional beep harmonising with the commotion. He tried to read the graffiti that marked the tiled wall, but was having trouble reading the smudged ink and paint. 

He had just figured out what the left-handed “artist” had tried to write –‘ _daz woz ere 95_ ’- when a flash caught his attention.

He turned to see John’s smile peaking out under the camera that was still pressed up against his face.

“Really?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah,” John said and wound the camera up again. “Smile.” 

Sherlock huffed but cooperated. Their train came railing into their station as John snapped the picture. 

They both stood up and shuffled their way onto the train, John leading them all the way to the last carriage and sat the down at the very end, John up against the back wall directly under a common courtesy poster and Sherlock squished up next to him, one cold yellow metal pole pressing harshly into his leg. 

He ran his hands through his hair, trying to flatten his curls and made eye contact with the man sitting across from him. 

The stranger smiled small and polite and Sherlock saw him turn minutely towards his travelling companion, another man who, at the jerk of the train setting off, shuffled his opened newspaper, annoyed. 

Sherlock’s gazed focussed on the way the non-reading man’s right hand grazed his companion’s thigh subtly and the reading-man leant into it. 

It was obvious that they were together and when Sherlock looked up at the non-reading man’s face he found that he was already watching Sherlock. 

He nodded when Sherlock raised his eyebrows, answering Sherlock’s non-verbal question. The man’s eyes glanced from John to Sherlock, his eyebrows raised in a question of his own. 

Sherlock easily deduced what was being asked and flushed, tucking his chin in. 

“You alright?” John asked, pulling his head forward from where it was resting on the window. 

“Yeah, yeah. My hands just hurt a bit, that’s all.” 

John frowned and took Sherlock’s closest hand and inspected it. 

Sherlock didn’t hear what John said, instead glancing out from the corner of his eye to see the man across from his smile and whisper into his partner’s ear. The reading-man looked up and over at John and Sherlock. 

He gave them a smile and a nod and John, already finished with examining Sherlock’s not-actually-sore hand, looked over and smiled back cheerfully.

John leant his head back against the window, his gaze skyward and the other man went back to his newspaper and Sherlock was left awkwardly staring at the man across from him. 

The man smiled with what Sherlock thought was reassurance and put his hand on his partner’s thigh and Sherlock watched, with a tight stomach, the reader interlace his fingers with the ones on his thigh with an intuitive air.

Sherlock let out a deep breath he was holding instinctively and clenched his hands tight, wanting more than anything, to be able to hold John’s hand as well. 

His hands were shaking by the time John drew himself up and Sherlock following suit. He turned back to the couple to see them exchange a quick peck and a small smile before Sherlock was jostled into John. 

He watched John’s gaze fall from the couple to Sherlock and John gave him a small smile before gentle pushing Sherlock ahead of him and manoeuvring him through the crowds of people until they were both safely back on the street. 

They didn’t talk about the train ride or the pair while they waited for Mr Vlahos, instead choosing to quiz each other, John quizzing Sherlock on the chemical elements and their properties and Sherlock quizzing John on the names of the two-hundred and six bones in the human body. 

 

“How many metatarsals in the human foot?” 

“Ten, five in each foot.” John answered correctly. “Um, nitrogen?” 

“Easy,” Sherlock preened. “Symbol: N, number: seven, atomic mass: fourteen point zero zero six seven four and it’s density is,” he sucked his teeth, trying to recall the correct information. “Zero point zero zero one two five zero six grams per cubic centimetre.” 

John smiled, thinking for a moment.

“Discovered in 1772 by Daniel Rutherford, who was a Scottish physician.”

Sherlock was shocked.

“That’s correct.”

John smiled and tapped at the side of his head.

“Not just a pretty face.”

Their quiz was interrupted when a harried nurse pushed the already complaining Mr Vlahos through the glass sliding doors that separated the waiting room from the examination rooms. 

“-Your elders, young lady!” 

The nurse parked the wheelchair bound patient in front on John and Sherlock.

“He’s all yours,” she said in an Irish accent, turning away and walking back through the glass doors before either of them could reply. 

The ride back to Halton Camp wasn’t as nice as the ride to London was, with Mr Vlahos awake and complaining the whole way back, John and Sherlock sharing looks each time one of them had to muffle a laugh. 

It was just past five when they pulled into the nursing home car park, Nurse BiYu already waiting there with another nurse, ready to take the complaining pensioner off of his and John’s hands.

“Hey, you ‘right?” The other nurse asked Mr Vlahos as she wheeled him back inside. 

Sherlock didn’t hear the old man’s reply, which he thought was a good thing, considering that he had just suffered an hour listening to the man complain about everything from foreigners to Sherlock’s hairstyle. 

“So, how was everythin’?” Nurse BiYu asked, taking the bag that Sherlock figured had all of Mr Vlahos’ information and documents in it. “All good?”

“Yeah,” John replied. “I think he got his prescription refilled.” 

“Ay, good, maybe he’ll be less cranky.” She looked from John to Sherlock. “We have an hour ‘til tea, so you’re free. Are ya’ joining us, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock blinked.

“If I’m allowed to, ma’am,” he replied, stumped, causing his vowels to round further than usual. 

“Course,” John replied. “Come on, I’m knackered.” 

Sherlock nodded a farewell to the smiling nurse and followed John towards the back of the lot, passing an elderly lady squatting near a dumpster, smoking heavily.

The smell burnt Sherlock’s nose and he was reminded of Mycroft. He quickly forced the reminder away and followed John behind the main building, skirting along the edge of the forest that surrounded the retirement village. 

They approached a small shed-like building; it’s white plaster walls and brown tiled ceiling almost identical to the main building, only much smaller and more run-down. 

John opened the door and let Sherlock enter first and Sherlock was hit with a wave of the scent of a hormonal teenage boy, all sweat and grime but with the lingering scent of antibacterial wash.

The room was small and cosy, Sherlock spotting a king single bed pressed up against the wall with what Sherlock gathered to be John’s suitcase shoved underneath, a beige and peeling leather couch squished between a TV set and a potted Mother-in-Law’s Tongue. 

There was a small kitchenette, consisting of a sink, microwave, two hot-platted stove and a mini-fridge stashed underneath. There was a door opposite, which Sherlock took to be the bathroom. 

“It’s small, I know,” John from behind Sherlock. “But it was either this or staying in one of the rooms in the main building and I love volunteering, but I couldn’t stand staying in one of those rooms. They’re so depressing.” 

Sherlock nodded and continued in documenting all that he could from the small squared space. 

He ran his hand over a metal tin, overflowing with twenty-pound notes. He turned to John, eyebrows raised.

“Okay,” John huffed, looking a little embarrassed. “Can you keep a secret?” 

Sherlock blinked. Of course he could keep a secret. Sherlock had kept many secrets of his own and many that weren’t his and he wasn’t one to exactly divulge his every thought to whoever listened. Besides, whom would he tell anyway? 

He nodded and sat next to John on his bed, where he keenly had to focus on what John was confessing and not losing himself to the fact that he was sitting where John slept. Well, good thing Sherlock was very good at multi-tasking. 

“I’m not actually volunteering,” John confessed and he then made a face. “Well, I am but I’m not, but I am really but I’m actually not.” 

Sherlock had an IQ of one hundred and seventy-eight and could master any subject he put his mind too, but he could not, for the life of him, understand what John was trying to say. 

“What?” He asked, feeling a tad bit annoyed.

John took a breath. 

“I did come here thinking I was volunteering,” John started and Sherlock willed himself to not roll his eyes. He already knew the story of John’s career counsellor advising him that volunteering looked good on university applications and how John found the volunteering job here in Halton Camp by scouring the newspapers. 

Sherlock nodded, and John continued.

“But when I got here, they liked me so much that they started to pay me. Not much, but enough for me to save. I’m not supposed to be telling people as me being a volunteer and not a paid employee means I’m a tax ride off or something.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Okay.” 

“You’re not mad that I lied to you?” 

Sherlock shrugged. 

“Not really. Wasn’t a very interesting lie anyway.” He thought for a second. “Although, I am mad at myself for not deducing it. I always seem to miss something.” 

John laughed and fell onto his bed, clutching at his stomach as he giggled. 

Sherlock watched him, a warm feeling overtaking his sternum as he watched John try to straighten his face but fail. 

“You really are something, you know that?” John asked through giggles. 

Sherlock smiled. He had heard that phrase said to him many times, although none had this happy and dare he say it –fond quality to it. 

John pulled himself up by Sherlock’s forearms, accidently pulling Sherlock’s upper body closer towards him. 

“Did you have fun today?” John asked with his hands still curled around Sherlock arms. 

Sherlock took a shuddering breath and looked away from John’s gleaming blue eyes and at the cluster of freckles bleached on the boy’s cheek. 

“Yeah,” he said, internally wincing at his cracking voice. “I love London, and I’ve never gotten to explore like I had today so thank you, for that.” 

John moved closer and Sherlock swallowed, able to see the smaller details in John’s face, from his pores to his blond eyelashes to his chapped and bitten lips. 

“You’re welcome,” John said. He knew John was whispering but it sounded like John was yelling directly into his eardrums. “So, what do you want to do now?” 

Sherlock could feel John’s warm breath on his face and his thighs quaked, as his lower body grew excited once more. His blood was rushing in his ears and he made a small, almost desperate noise in the back of his throat. 

He knew what was about to happen. He had studied enough about human relationships in theory and had spent many hours watching his fellow Harrower’s flirt with the opposing football team’s audience to know he was about to be kissed but he was still nervous. He had never liked anyone enough for it to even be a possibility and vice versa, but here he was, in a retirement home bedsit, with a boy who made him feel happy and normal and who, in return, found Sherlock interesting and worth his time and attention.

Sherlock froze and watched John lean in slightly, his eyes crossing as John got closer. 

A car horn sounded loudly then and Sherlock leaped up as if electrocuted. 

“I have to pee.” Sherlock said. 

He looked at John’s face and watched a multitude of emotions cross, from disappointed to worried to reassuring. 

John pointed to the white door opposite his kitchenette and Sherlock shuffled into the cold restroom, closing the door and sliding down, pulling his knees in. 

He threaded his hands through his curls and tugged, pulling himself back in. He knew he wanted to kiss John, as certain as he was that mixing sodium and chlorine would leave him with a two-week ban from his school laboratory. 

He didn’t know why the notion of kissing John made him anxious and unable to breathe when it was obvious that John wouldn’t mind. 

Or maybe he did. Sherlock had no data of John with his other friends, so he didn’t know if John was this close with others. John did seem like a physically affection person, completely at ease with giving a reassuring pat with the patients of the home. 

Sherlock pushed his face into his knees, hating his inexperience. 

John may not even like boys, what with his comment about breaking up with his girlfriend before coming to Halton that still floated around Sherlock’s mind palace, every time John smiled or looked at him like that. 

He huffed and pulled himself up to the basin, washing his hands and face. His excitement had, thankfully, dwindled after his slight emotional breakdown. 

He left the bathroom to find John sitting on his bed, lost in thought. 

He looked up when Sherlock cleared his throat.

“You good?” 

Sherlock nodded and there was an awkward silence as John stared at Sherlock uncertainly and Sherlock avoided his gaze. 

John cleared his throat.

“Wanna’ read my human bio textbooks?” 

Sherlock’s mood peeked up as he lifted his gaze to John, seeing the boy smiling softly at Sherlock. 

He nodded vigorously and jumped onto the bed next to John as John’s light giggles filled to small bedsit and Sherlock’s thumping ears. 

After an early dinner of lukewarm, watery pumpkin soup and vaguely stale, thickly cut bread, Sherlock and John were watching reruns of a show John called _Only Fools and Horses,_ with Sherlock making remarks about the protagonist’s dodgy attempts at making a quick buck. 

John laughed at Sherlock comments and explained the plot and concept to an unconcerned Sherlock and gave up, continuing to watch the show and lending half an ear to Sherlock’s comments on how the two could better improve their schemes or how the two main characters unquestionably could not be brothers, - _“just look at their facial structures, John!” “They’re actors, Sherlock.” “Still.”_

Sherlock shuffled, trying to sink himself into the old and bumpy sofa and instead forcing himself closer to John. The two of them already touching due to the sofa being small and the two of them being growing males, so when Sherlock rearranged himself, he affectively just half sat on John. 

“Apologies,” Sherlock mumbled, his face burning as he tried to move again but shifted more onto John’s lap. 

John leant back and Sherlock bum fell and hit the sofa cushion, his shoulder tucked under John’s. John didn’t bring up the fact that he pretty much had his arm around Sherlock so, out of politeness, Sherlock didn’t either and instead settled in more comfortably as John attempted to translate what the so-called ‘ _Del Boy_ ’ was saying. 

The sky had gone a dusky blue as the last of the pink and orange sunset had faded, leaving Sherlock and John in the darkness of John’s bedsit, the only light coming from the TV and illuminating John’s skin in the most peculiar and interesting way. 

Sherlock was in the middle of memorising the shape and structure of John’s jawline when it opened and clicked with a wide and quite audible yawn. 

“You wanna’ stay the night?” John asked while yawning and Sherlock very much wanted to but he knew he needed to get home. Nanny Beauharnais would very much scold him if he stayed out without permission. Well, only if she knew that he actually left the house.

While he disappeared often, usually his nanny had no idea.

“I should get home, actually,” he said, a sinking feeling in his stomach that he has become to familiar with whenever he was faced with leaving John. Getting attached to someone after knowing them for so few days didn’t seem very healthy, but nothing about Sherlock’s personality seemed healthy to others. 

John mumbled an agreement and stood up when Sherlock did and followed him to the door. It wasn’t until John had shut and locked the door behind both of them that he realised what John was doing.

“You don’t have to walk me home. I know these streets quite well.” 

“But it’s dark,” John argued, a worried look creasing his eyebrows together. 

“I’m used to walking at night.” 

John huffed an irritated breath. 

“Humour me.”

Sherlock clenched his teeth.

“I don’t need to be coddled, John.” 

Sherlock watched John close his eyes and crack his neck. 

“Well, then.” John said, marching ahead of Sherlock and out towards the main road. “Perhaps I want a nice walk at dusk.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and jogged to catch up to John.

“I know what you’re doing.” 

“Whatever do you mean?” John asked, feigning confusion. “I’m just out here enjoying the fresh country breeze.” He took a big and overly dramatic sniff. “Mmmm, smell that crisp air.” 

Sherlock had to swallow down a laugh. 

“You’re an idiot.” 

The got onto the main road, not bothering to stay on the footpath as little to no cars ever drove down this road, especially at night. 

John turned to Sherlock.

“Why Sherlock, is your house this way?” He placed a hand over his heart and made a small gasp. “Well, I might as well accompany you home as long as I’m headed this way.” 

This time, Sherlock couldn’t contain his laughter and leant his head back, gleefully exasperated and noted the first few stars making themselves known. 

“Fine, fine. You can walk me home, you annoying cretin.” 

John took no insult to Sherlock’s taunt and stuck his tongue out and laughed when Sherlock replied.

The quiet streets where filled with their laughter echoing in the silence and it was the best walk home Sherlock had ever had. 

 

 

They didn’t speak much of the way; the two of the enjoying each other’s company and the peaceful atmosphere and noise of the chirping crickets and their synchronising exhales.

They stopped at the top of the driveway.

“You have a key to get in?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I can get in by the lower west window.”

John look dubious at this information. 

“Secret entrance?”

When Sherlock nodded, John muttered a ‘cool’ before turning to Sherlock, still looking a tad bit dubious and anxious.

“See you tomorrow?”

Sherlock nodded and wave goodbye, trekking his way down his long driveway turning around to see John still standing there, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“Bye John!” Sherlock yelled. He only turned back around when John’s answering farewell filled him ears. 

 

 

To avoid the onslaught and no doubt interrogation from his nanny, Sherlock snuck around the Officer’s Mess and towards the back door, his only light source the various lit windows that gave away the officer’s night-time activities. 

He jiggled opened the broken lower window and slid in to the darken hallway. He knew his house well enough to know his room was directly above him, so he made his way to the lower library, feeling through the darkness for the door disguised as a bookshelf and made his way carefully up the staircase. 

He opened the door that led into the upstairs lounge room, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. 

He left the lounge room and entered the West Wing hallway, the only light source coming from the crack of his bedroom door. 

Sherlock hesitated outside of his bedroom. It wouldn’t be Mummy or Father and Nanny Beauharnais would never sit and wait for him so it would have to be-

Sherlock clenched his teeth and pushed opened the door to spot Mycroft sitting imposingly on his bed, his chubby fingers playing with the many photographs Sherlock had taped to his bed frame. 

“May I help you?” 

Mycroft’s beady blue eyes shifted to Sherlock’s and he rose, swinging his ever-present umbrella with him. 

“And just where you today, brother mine?” 

Sherlock scoffed.

“As if you don’t know.” 

His brother smiled at him placidly, his slicked down hair moving with one whole movement with the questionable raise of his brows. 

“And how did you enjoy London?” 

‘It was fine.” Sherlock moved to his wardrobe and started shredding his clothes. One thing that could make his brother disappear would be nudity and Sherlock wasn’t opposed to trying. “Speaking of London,” Sherlock continued, gently unwrapping John’s scarf and placing it on his bedside table. “Why aren’t you there?” 

His brother twirled his umbrella and Sherlock has never seen a move so condescending before in his life. 

“There was a matter of great importance close to home that I had to oversee so I decided to settle here for tonight.” 

Sherlock kicked his shoes off and hid a smirk as Mycroft inelegantly dodged to miss the flying footwear. 

“And when will you be leaving?” 

“Tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Great,” Sherlock said sarcastically as he shimmied out of his trousers and into his pyjama pants. 

Sherlock’s brief partial nudity seemed to have it’s desired affect on his brother as Mycroft sighed and turned towards the door.

“By the way, dear brother,” Mycroft said, halfway out the door. “I would love to meet this… _friend_ of yours.” 

Sherlock stomach dropped at the mere suggestion of Mycroft meeting John.

“No,” he said and was almost horrified himself at the desperate and distraught tone he had used. 

Mycroft blinked, caught off guard by his brother’s dreaded tone and nodded.

“We’ll see,” he said and closed the door behind him.

Sherlock had to sit down. There was no way he was allowing Mycroft to meet John. Mycroft was slimy and smug and he could tear John’s entire future and world apart. No, for both John’s future and Sherlock mental wellbeing, the two shall never meet.

 

Carefully extracting the hidden Polaroid from its hiding place in his jumper, Sherlock taped the picture of John singing in the car next to the other ones on his headboard. 

Smiling, Sherlock wrapped himself up in his duvet and filed every memory of the day into his mind palace, which was slowing becoming a museum dedicated to John and the emotions he brought out in Sherlock.

He felt relax yet tense when he closed his eyes, the memory of John’s approaching face burned under his eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Things to know:**  
>  Hellenophobia - Anti-Greek sentiment
> 
>  **Translations:**  
>  _Si vous voulez parler français, Jean, dites-le_ \- If you want to speak French, Jean, say it  
>  _Sacré bleu_ \- Damn it (John didn’t know this)  
>  _Est-ce tout ce que vous savez? Allons. Où aimerais tu aller ensuite?_ \- Is that all you know? Come on. Where would you like to go next


End file.
